AU-2: Vengeance Tears
by N-Vision
Summary: The sequel to Avengers: Unbreakable. When the team sets out to avenge their loved ones, they discover a painful truth: vengeance demands a terrible price. Like finding out who your friends really are. And your enemies. And yourself. Even with all the power in the world, can you ever change a human heart?
1. An Incident on 87th Street

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me)._

**Chapter 1: An Incident on 87th Street**

**New York**

Dr. Donald Blake, one of New York's most accomplished cardiologists, hobbled down 87th on his bum leg, leaning as he went on a walking stick striking in its ugliness and simplicity. Because of his limp, he moved slower than the rest of the pedestrian traffic. People bumped him as they passed, and if they'd cared to notice, they might have wondered why a man who gave every other appearance of sophistication – well-dressed, well-groomed, intelligent face – would use such a staff.

If they only knew.

But Blake paid them no mind. He was too busy reflecting on the incredible events of the past few weeks. His bizarre introduction to the famous Tony Stark – the only patient ever to present at Blake's practice with _microbots_ in his chest. Stark's role in Blake's own unbelievable journey to Norway, to the cave where he found this staff. And everything else that followed. Then their battle with the scientist Henry Pym, the man who'd discovered those amazing particles. And their rescue by the remarkable Janet van Dyne, who risked – and lost – everything in her brave bid to save Pym.

Then their conference on the ship. _The Avengers._ And the start of something . . . what? Heroic? Ridiculous? Arrogant? Were they fools to think four people could really pull off what they'd set out to do? For all their collective brilliance – just the two, Stark and Pym, were responsible for more scientific advances than any ten research institutions in the world – were they really just children, playing at something far larger than themselves?

Blake wondered. In the past few days especially, he'd come to realize he still had very little idea what powers he really possessed. Unlike the others, Blake still had his cardiology practice to run. Stark, Pym and Janet had spent most of their days since the ship holed up in a research facility Stark had thrown together at his corporate campus in Queens. They'd already taken to calling it "Avengers Headquarters." There they worked, testing and refining their discoveries.

But Blake didn't have that luxury. Until he had _proof_ otherwise, cardiology was still his greatest outlet for performing great deeds, and it left him little spare time for transforming into . . . what was it Janet called him? _That Thor character_.

And Blake really didn't know what he would do in that other form anyway. _Swoop down out of the sky and stop muggers? _That'd be like using a tank to kill a gnat.

_Maybe I'll fly to North Korea and destroy all their nukes._

Hmm. He hadn't actually thought of that before. He probably _could_do it. So . . . should he?

He had just started seriously considering the merits of the idea when he heard a cry coming from down the alley he was passing.

"Help me! I need a doctor down here!"

Blake snapped out of his reverie and stopped.

"Help me please! I need a doctor! PLEASE!"

Out from a shadow further down the alley he saw what looked like the figure of a man, stooped and frail. He was staggering in Blake's direction, waving his arms weakly.

"Sir! Please! Can you get us a doctor?"

Blake immediately took off down the alley, scampering forward as best he could on the cane. "_I'm_ a doctor! What's going on?"

"It's my kid sir! Something's wrong with him! I don't know what it is! Please, hurry!" The man looked down toward a spot behind some trash cans that Blake couldn't see. Blake hurried along, his dress shoes scraping loudly across the rocky alley pavement.

"Please! Hurry!" The man was almost jumping in place now, though he was so skinny he looked like his frame might shatter under the strain. Blake at last reached the spot and looked down.

_What? _ No one there.

Just then, he felt a thunderous blow to his head. The whole alley rocked, and he fell to his knees. The he felt his staff get whisked out of his grip.

"Ah ha!" The voice was suddenly transformed – not the thin cry of the old man, but a sinister, nasally tone. "Now how about _I_ have a try at this power."

Blake slumped on his knees, staring down at the grungy pavement, his head ringing from the blow, white spots scattering across his vision. But he managed to turn his head to see that, whatever it was about the voice, it was still the wiry old man standing there. He held Blake's staff in his hand.

Then he did something that made Blake's stomach sink. He got to one knee, held the staff perpendicular to the ground, raised it high, and smacked the butt end straight down onto the pavement as hard as he could.

Through his groggy, pain-numbed thoughts, Blake realized one thing with crystal clarity in that instant:

_He knows!_

Dear God, how was this possible?

Thankfully, nothing happened when the man drove the staff into the pavement. He raised it up and drove it down again.

Still nothing.

He started pounding it into the pavement, over and over. Still nothing happened. He whacked harder and faster. Finally, he let out a cry of frustration.

"What is it!? What's the secret!?"

Blake shook his head and tried to speak. "Who . . . are you?"

The man looked up. But something was different about him. He looked younger. Or was it just Blake's still-rattling eyeballs playing tricks on him?

"You moron!" The man brought a swift kick up into Blake's abdomen. "How do you do it?"

Blake rolled under the impact of the kick and fell onto his side. He thought he felt a rib break.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The man scowled with a ferocity that made his eyes seem to glow. He reached down, grabbed Blake by the collar, and thrust a narrow, angular face close to Blake's. There was no mistaking it now: despite the pain roiling his mind, Blake could clearly see the man was getting younger. De-aging before Blake's eyes.

"I _will_ have your power." The man held up Blake's staff in his other hand. "It's only a matter of time. Tell me how you do it!"

Blake shook his head. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about. That's just my cane. What do you want with my cane?"

The man spat in Blake's face, gurgling hate seething from his lips.

"Don't play dumb with me! You either cooperate and I let you live – if you call your pathetic existence in this flimsy shell _living_. Or I'll kill you and figure out how to harness this thing another way." The man hissed his next words. "But I've dreamed about killing you for a long, long time. So either way is fine with me!"

The man's hatred burned like fire around the edges of his eyes. Blake couldn't understand it. _Dreamed about killing me for a long time?_ He doesn't even . . . .

Then it hit him. Blake stared into his attacker's coal-black eyes and, even in that terrible moment, his medically trained mind started sorting through evidence. He recognized the look. It embodied both hatred . . . and recognition.

_He knows me!_

"So what'll it be, cripple! You gonna tell me how to use this thing?" He held up the staff again, then clamped a vise grip onto Blake's throat. "Or am I going to kill you?"

The staff! Suddenly through his stabs of pain and whirling thoughts, Blake realized the obvious . . . the staff! He was helpless without it!

He glanced over at it. Mistake. He grabbed for it desperately, but the man, seeing in Blake's eyes what was coming, yanked it away easily. He let Blake fall.

"Don't be a fool! You're helpless against me in _this_ puny husk of flesh." The man fired another kick into Blake's side. Blake winced as his lungs emptied. "So tell me how to use this staff, and we can stop this needless _brutality_!" He kicked Blake again.

The man moved toward Blake, death smoldering in his face. Blake could see the man was transforming entirely now – he was taller, stronger, and decades younger-looking. He hefted Blake's staff up in his hand and looked at it.

"Now _here's_ a touch of irony." He brought the stick down into the palm of his other hand a couple of times. "What if I beat the information out of you with your very . . . own . . . staff!"

With that, he brought the stick down in a searing arc onto Blake's shoulder. A bolt of pain shot across Blake's back. He brought the staff down in another blow. Then another. And another. For the first time, Blake felt the real and terrible fear that he might die. In that moment of blank, helpless terror, he finally realized he had to stop worrying about who this man was or why he was doing this. He had to get away.

"Help!" His cry came out weakly the first time, but he called again, louder.

"Help!" He tried to start crawling back down the alley.

Another blow careened down on him. Another.

"HELP!" Blake looked up through eyes half-blinded by pain to see people on the sidewalk in the distance, back in the direction he'd come. They were stopping and looking down the alley.

"HELP ME! PLEASE!"

Another blow, this time on the head. The hard wooden staff cracked against his skull like a mace made of bone itself. He couldn't believe the pain.

But people were racing down the alley toward him now. He could hear them yelling at his attacker. Someone cried "Call the police!" Vaguely, on the fringes of his sight, Blake saw the man raise the staff once more over his head. Then he stopped. Suddenly the man's mouth was at Blake's ear.

"Don't kid yourself. This isn't over. You _will_ see me again!"

Then the man took off running the other direction. Blake felt himself fall forward onto his elbows, still crawling toward his rescuers. Pain throbbed at a half-dozen points on his body. Then the people were all around him – submerging him in supporting hands – comforting words – urges to lie down – "help is on the way."

Blake shook his head to clear the pain and confusion.

"No!" He tried to stagger to his feet.

"Sir, just lie still. Help is on the way."

"No! Get me to a taxi! I have to get a taxi!"

"Sir, you're hurt. You need a doctor."

"I _am_ a doctor! I just need a taxi! I can get help where I'm going!"

Slowly, reluctantly, the people helped him to his feet. An arm around his shoulders, another at his elbow. He hobbled along on one foot, his bum leg dangling completely lifeless. It must have taken a direct hit.

But Blake couldn't worry about that now. As he hobbled up the alley, he saw one of his rescuers hailing a taxi. Then he felt himself slip briefly out of, then back into consciousness. He tried to stay awake by focusing his fading mind on a series of rigid thoughts. Two of which terrified him:

_He knows me! He has my staff!_

And one that drove him forward on a sliver of hope.

_I have to get to Avengers Headquarters!_


	2. Enemy

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 2: Enemy**

**Stark Industries Global Headquarters, Queens, New York**

In a spartan, warehouse-style R&D lab that Tony Stark had hurriedly carved out of one of the cavernous buildings on his company's campus, Stark walked over to where Henry Pym stood beneath a high-roofed receiving bay, wrapped a belt around Pym's waist, dropped to his knees . . .

. . . then looked up with a grin.

"Don't get your hopes up, big boy. I've just got to make one last adjustment to the discs on this belt, then you can try it out."

Pym looked away awkwardly. "This is worse than getting fitted for a new suit."

"Yeah, well you haven't even _seen_ the suit yet. But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Right now we've just got to make sure these miniaturized magnetic canisters will do what they're supposed to." Stark kept tinkering with the belt he'd just put on Pym. "Namely, to disperse those particles of yours evenly around your body."

Pym looked down. "It's a huge improvement over hauling that dispersal unit around like a backpack."

"Well, portability does come at a cost in this case," Stark replied. "You only get one roundtrip ticket per belt. Half the canisters are positively charged, for growth. Half negative, to shrink you back to normal. After that, you're done." Stark pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket and started turning tiny screws, barely visible on the side of one of the canisters. "But at least this way you're ready at a moment's notice. Just push the button on top of the buckle there."

Pym examined it. Just then, Janet van Dyne walked in. "Looks like you boys are having fun."

Stark didn't even look up. "Yeah, well I was gonna see if you could fit me in something like this later. I was thinking maybe something leather?"

"Very funny." Janet walked over to a long console of equipment, computers and readouts on the far side of the room from where Stark and Pym worked. "Where are they?"

Stark did look around this time. "On the counter there."

"I don't see them."

Stark gave a final twist to one of the discs on Pym's belt, then got to his feet. "Well, that could be because they're almost microscopic, sweetheart. Did you think about that?"

Janet glared at him. _Did he _ever_ stop?_ "Hmm. Not unlike certain parts of your anatomy from what I hear."

Stark didn't bat an eyelash. "Well you know, you shouldn't trust something like that to rumor. You should find out for yourself."

Janet rolled her eyes. "Why don't you just show me what I came here for, instead of what you _think_ came here for."

Stark reached the control console. He looked around a bit, then reached down and picked up something so small it could hardly be seen. Janet held out her hand, and Stark placed it in her palm.

"So your mind's still made up on this?"

Janet held her palm up to her eyes. "Yep." She squinted. "I can hardly tell what they are."

"Those, my dear, are the world's smallest repulsors."

Janet looked skeptical. "They'll carry me?"

"Well not right now. But if you do what you say you're going to . . . ."

Pym piped up from across the room. "Which, by the way, I'd like to go on record _again_ as saying I don't think is a good idea."

Janet glanced over at him. "Thank you, my dear. We've already discussed this."

"Janet, it's dangerous."

"Hank, _my_ research made it possible for your particles to be used without those unpleasant side effects – like having your internal organs explode. I think that entitles me to a piece of the action. Besides, you think I'm leaving you boys to have all the fun? No way."

Hank frowned. "Tony, can we get on with the test?"

"Yeah, just a second."

Janet looked back down at her palm. "Which way do you wear them?"

Stark looked around on the counter, picked up a pencil, and used it to point. "This way. See? I even designed them to look like little wings." He edged closer. "Little wings for our little angel."

Janet smirked. "More like little wasp to you, buddy."

Stark's eyes lit up. "That's it!" He turned and started entering something into a nearby computer.

"That's what?" Janet looked over his shoulder.

"Well, I've decided that for security purposes, we don't want to be using our real names when we're on comms, using email, that sort of thing. If a communication was intercepted, it would put any one of us at risk - seeing as you two are still wanted by the authorities, and I'm supposed to be running a company, and Don is supposed to be a cardiologist." Stark looked down and tapped the nuclear device permanently implanted in his chest. "_Is_ a cardiologist."

"So I've given us code names. I'm Iron Man. He's Goliath. Don is Thor – I think you named him that didn't you? And . . . I _was_ going to name you Sex Kitten. But I've just decided you can be Wasp."

"Oh, so you named me last. Why, because I'm a girl?"

Stark tilted his head, as if already weary of the question. "No, because it wasn't that long ago that you said you wanted to use the particles to shrink, as a counterpoint to his growth."

"Growth, by the way, which I'm still waiting to test again," Pym inserted from across the room.

"Okay, just a minute!" Stark snapped back.

"So I'm the only one who doesn't get a say in my name?" Janet pressed.

Stark tilted his head the other way and adopted a fake weary tone. "Noo. _You_ named Don, I just said that. _I_ named Hank. And _my_ name was chosen by an online poll of old girlfriends, describing my legendary endurance in bed." He gestured with his hand, as if stating the obvious.

Janet shook her head. "Oh brother." She looked back down at the tiny repulsors in her hand. "So how will I wear these when I'm . . . you know, the size I am now?"

"That's where the fabric we've been working on comes in. It's extremely flexible. You'll wear the repulsors under your clothes on a strap that will fit right about . . . there." He drew an imaginary line with his hand just beneath Janet's left breast.

She slapped his hand away. "You're pathetic."

"Pathetic," Stark echoed. "Is that an upgrade or downgrade from 'sex-obsessed juvenile' that you called me last week?"

Just then, they heard a thump against the door to the outside, not far from where Pym stood. Then a faint scraping sound came through, as if someone was rubbing against it. Then they heard the entry security keypad beeping as its buttons were pressed. The door opened, and Donald Blake came staggering through. He looked terrible, like he'd just been in a wreck.

Pym started toward him. "Don, are you alright?"

"I think," he began, then had to pause to catch his breath. "I think Thor has an enemy."

Then the doorway exploded behind him in a blinding flash of light, blowing half the wall off with it, and Blake disappeared in a cloud of dust and rubble.

And someone - or some _thing_ - glowing like a nuclear reactor, started coming through the hole behind him.


	3. Blindsided

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 3: Blindsided**

**Stark Industries Global Headquarters, Queens, New York**

Janet scrambled back to her feet, Stark next to her. She had to shield her eyes from the brightness emanating from whatever it was coming through the massive hole it had just made in the wall of Stark's laboratory. It looked like a man. But it glowed like an angel.

It traveled like an angel, too. It didn't _walk_ in. It floated - hovering fifteen feet in the air.

"What the hell is _that_?" Stark whispered to Janet.

She shook her head. "I don't know." Then she noticed something in the intruder's hand. "But I have a feeling it's the 'enemy' Don was talking about. Look what it's holding."

In one hand, the being – whatever it was – held what looked like Blake's walking cane.

"Alright. I've got a couple of repulsors over there." Stark nodded to their right, across an expanse of open floor with no place to hide. "I'm going to see if I can bluff him."

Stark stepped out from behind the console, pasted on a fake smile, massaged his hands together and walked forward. "Hi! Welcome to Stark Industries! Can I help you?"

The intruder looked down at Stark, and a sneering grin crept over his face. Then he thrust his hand out in a single gesture, and Stark instantly went flying through the air and slammed against the near wall. He fell in a heap.

"You can do nothing for me, puny mortal!" The intruder's thin, nasally voice seethed with contempt. "Except stay out of my way!"

Janet ducked back down behind the console and looked over at Stark. He lay dazed, barely conscious, at the base of the wall. She darted toward him, and it was only after she was halfway across the floor that she realized: Blake and Pym were presumably buried under the debris from the intruder's explosive entrance. And Stark now lay half-conscious on the floor.

_That means I'm alone with this monster._

She turned to face him. He was still gliding toward her, but slowly, almost majestically, like a conqueror surveying his vanquished foes. But his eyes were fixed greedily on her. And Janet could see in them that he was contemplating God-knows-what kind of diversions he might have with her later. She shuddered at the thought.

But as she stared at him in terror, she something else, over his shoulder. Something that amazed her – even though she'd seen it before. Something that suddenly gave her hope.

Out of the dust cloud behind the intruder – silently and with incredible speed – rose Pym. He shot up to an enormous height in what seemed like barely a second. In all the dust and commotion, she'd forgotten he was there. But he still had on the particle belt he and Stark were testing. And now he was rising from the dust like a leviathan from the deep, growing to enormous size – fifteen feet, twenty, twenty-five feet! But utterly silently. The intruder didn't even know he was there!

Janet realized in that instant that she must not look at him. If the intruder saw it, he'd turn, and Pym's advantage of surprise would be lost. She forced herself to stare fixedly at the intruder.

In fact, she decided, she could do more than that.

"What do you want?" she yelled, waving her arms angrily. She boldly started walking straight toward the intruder. "Why did you attack him?" She gestured back toward Stark. "He didn't do anything to you!"

The intruder squinted his eyes at her with a fiendish grin, focusing on her with all his attention - just what she wanted. "I'd destroy you like I did him," the intruder seethed. "If I didn't think I could have more fun doing _other_ things to you!"

Janet saw Pym haul back for a roundhouse punch with all his might. So she kept up the charade. She folded her arms and glared at the intruder haughtily. "You want to hear _my_ idea of fun?" The intruder looked intrigued.

"This!"

And Pym unleashed the blow. He hit the intruder like a gigantic wrecking ball, his fist as big as the man's entire body. The punch landed with such force it knocked him completely through the side wall of the building and into the next one. Janet heard the machinery crashing into wreckage from the other building.

Then she heard something else – a little thing. A clatter, coming from right at Pym's feet. She turned and looked. And there it was.

_Blake's staff!_

Pym had hit the intruder so hard he'd knocked Blake's cane right out of the guy's hand.

"Hank, the staff!" Janet pointed to the floor.

Pym silently nodded. He reached down and picked up Blake's limp form from the debris with one hand, then reached over and grabbed the staff with his other hand. Meanwhile Janet checked on Stark. He was just coming around.

"We gotta get out of here," was all he said. He started trying to get to his feet.

Janet helped him up. "I agree."

"This way!" Stark called to Pym, who lumbered toward them, his head high above theirs. Janet looked back, and even in the terror of the moment, she found it unnerving to see Pym towering over them, five times his normal size, but otherwise exactly the same. The eye couldn't make sense of the proportions.

Stark ran a few paces along the wall, pressed a button, and a heavy metal plate slid open. "In here!" He helped Janet in. Then they both looked back for Pym – and realized "back" wasn't where Pym was anymore. He was "up."

Stark craned his neck. "You're gonna have to shrink again!"

"But I can fight this guy!" Pym's voice boomed had he handed Blake and the staff down to Stark.

"Not alone, pal. And I'm not risking going for my repulsors. He'll be back any second. We're safer in here."

Pym looked back as if hesitant. But then he pressed a button on his belt buckle, and in a second he was back to normal size. He started into the passageway next to Stark, who was dragging Blake by the shoulders. As soon as they were inside, Stark set Blake down, turned and pushed a button on the inside of the doorway. The metal door slid closed behind them.

Stark slumped back against the passage wall. "This was an emergency disposal chute from when we used to conduct nuclear experiments in this building." He looked at the massive metal door. "Solid lead, six inches thick. That ought to keep him out of our hair for a minute."

They stood listening for a few seconds, but heard nothing. Stark fished a device that looked like a cell phone out of his pocket, punched a code into it, and they heard emergency sirens go off outside.

"Follow me." Stark started down the passageway. "This will get us out of here." Pym hauled Blake now, who was also just starting to come around.

"You know, I'm getting sick and tired of people blowing out the walls of my labs." Stark wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Then he punched another code into the device, and the voice of Pepper Potts, his executive assistant, came through.

"Tony, what's going on?"

"We've got an intruder. A . . . very powerful intruder. Security report."

There was a pause. Then Pepper's voice came back. "Nothing."

"Are you sure? He was just here. He would have come right through the wall of P Building."

Another pause. "I'm getting damage reports. And I'm looking at the hole in P Building. But security's already there. They report no intruders. And I'm not seeing anyone on camera. What kind of person am I looking for?"

Stark hesitated. "One that can fly."

Silence.

"Umm. Come again?"

"Listen, Pepper, I want security crawling all over this place, right? But no one gets inside my new lab."

"Alright." Pepper sounded confused. "Where are you?"

"Gotta go. I'll check back later."

Stark switched off the device. He kept moving down the passageway; Janet and Pym, buddy-carrying Blake, followed. After a few more seconds, Stark stopped. "Here." He was standing in front of another metal door, this one opening from the side of the passageway. He punched a code into the keypad, and the door opened. "This will connect us to the network of tunnels underneath this place. From there, we can get Don to a doctor, and get to my secure office suite."

He stepped into the low, dark tunnel, hit a button to turn on the lights, then turned and looked back at the rest of them. "But I don't know if even there we'll be safe from whatever _that_ was."


	4. What Donald Blake Decided To Do

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 4: What Donald Blake Decided To Do**

**Stark Industries Global Headquarters, Queens, New York**

Stark, Pym and Janet sat around the table in a secret, secure conference room adjacent to Stark's private office suite. Stark wore bandages on his forehead, but you could barely see them for his helmet. He sat at the head of the table wearing his full suit of repulsor-powered armor, with only the face plate open. And Pym had a fresh particle disc belt around his waist. Janet, whose particle device wasn't ready to use, packed a .38 caliber automatic pistol on each hip, given to her by Stark.

After what had just happened, they knew they couldn't be sure they were safe. Even here. And they didn't intend to get caught unprepared again.

Worse, they didn't know if they could be safe again anywhere. _Ever._

Silence reigned. Stark had briefly strummed his fingers on the table at one point, thinking. But with his metal gauntlets on, it sounded like a horse cantering through the room. So he stopped. Since then, there hadn't been a sound.

Finally, Janet broke the quiet. "Don said he felt like the person knew him?"

Stark looked up as if wakened from a daydream. "The guy told Don he'd thought about killing him for years." Stark paused. "Said the guy hated him, like Don had done something to him."

"But Don didn't know _him_?" Pym asked.

Stark glanced over at Pym and hesitated. He shifted in his seat. "There's something I don't think I ever told you guys. Don told me once that when he was in that other form, he had . . . memories. Of people and places he didn't recognize."

"How is that possible?" Pym asked.

"Search me. But just now in the infirmary he told me he had did have a feeling he'd seen the guy before. But he had no idea where, and no idea who he is."

Stark got up and started pacing, his boots clomping heavily on the floor. "But of more immediate concern to me, he also has no idea what this guy is capable of."

Another long silence followed. Then Pym leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table.

"Which means we're sitting ducks."

"Exactly."

"What do you mean?" Janet asked.

Stark answered. "This guy broke into a secure facility. To which he followed Don, it would appear, by _flying_. He blew a hole in the side of the building apparently without any weapon. Then he tossed me across the room with a wave of his hand. And we don't even know if this was the full extent of his powers, or if he was just getting warmed up. Maybe he can turn invisible too. Maybe he's sitting right here in the room with us, listening. Or he could come blasting back in here at any minute." Stark gestured with one hand. "Ergo, we're sitting ducks."

Pym shook his head. "So what are we going to do, sit around and wait for him to come back?"

Stark scoffed. "Not on my watch, pal. We're going after him."

"And how are we going to do that?"

Stark opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

"The guy can change form," Pym said. "Remember? That's what Don said. So how do we go after him? We don't even know what he looks like."

Stark stroked his chin. "Okay. Well . . . since we know he's after Don, we _do _sit around and wait for him to come back. Then we take him on, all four of us, together, suited up, powered up."

Just then the door opened. Blake hobbled in. He bore bandages around his head and on his cheek, and had one arm in a sling. But his staff was back in hand. He leaned heavily on it.

"Don!" Everyone said at once. "That was fast," Stark said. "The doctors let you go?"

"They said as long as I stayed close by, they'd let me come to the meeting." Blake's voice sounded thin; his face looked tired.

"Great! We were just making plans on how to deal with this guy."

Blake exhaled a small laugh. "Yeah. So was I."

Stark resumed the discussion. "Hank made a good point, which is we can't really go after this guy since he can change what he looks like. So, we're going to wait here for him to come back, then we'll all take him on, together, ready this time."

Blake hobbled into a seat. "And how long do we wait around?"

"As long as it takes."

Blake leaned forward. "Come on, Tony. Look at you - sitting around a conference table armed to the teeth because we're afraid this guy could come crashing in at any moment. You can't live like that. You gonna wear that Iron Man suit in the shower?"

"Hey, it's rust proof, pal."

Blake shook his head. "No. Not a good plan."

"Well what's yours?" Stark asked.

Blake sat silently for several seconds, his face twisting as if the words he wanted to say hurt coming out. Finally, he answered.

"I leave."

Stark looked skeptical. "And go where?"

Blake shook his head. "I don't know. It doesn't matter. I'm not talking about leaving to go somewhere else." He looked around at each of them in turn. "I'm talking about leaving the team."

Stark and Janet both started talking at once. "What? No! What are you talking about? We're a team."

"_You're_ a team," Blake answered to the last comment he heard. "Ever since the ship, you guys have been working away on your inventions. Which is terrific. You're perfect for each other. One of you invents something, another improves it. Each of you brings something to the process."

Blake shook his head again. "But _I_ acted like I could just go back to practicing medicine. As if discovering the power of the gods was just a weekend hobby." He paused. "When what I should have been doing was seeking answers."

Blake leaned back and stared off to one side, his face twisted in self-rebuke. "I've been a fool to act like I could go on, business as usual, after what happened to me. I should have been finding out who I really am. Where I come from. What these memories in my head are. If this being that attacked me really does know me, who else out there might know me? Who are they? _Where_ are they?"

"All those years, seeking my destiny." Blake dropped his hands into his lap. "And once I found it, I shied away from it." He looked around at the others. "Well now it has found _me_. I can't shy away from it anymore."

"So don't," Janet pleaded. "But you can still stay a part of the team."

"Janet," Blake interrupted. "That . . . _thing_ could have killed you. Could have killed Hank or Tony. Because of _me_. Even if you're willing to live like that, I'm not. I won't put your lives at risk on my account."

"Uh, excuse me," Stark said. "But I think putting our lives at risk kind of came with the territory when we agreed to this whole Avengers thing."

"Maybe when we were talking about doing good deeds in the world, or bringing killers to justice," Blake answered. "But this is a whole different level of entity."

"So just give us a little more time. We'll think of something." Stark turned to Pym. "Hank's been quiet. He's probably _already_ thought of something."

Pym didn't answer. Stark leaned toward him. "That was kind of your cue, big guy."

Pym continued silent a long time before answering. "Actually, Don's course of action makes the most sense."

Janet stared at Pym in shock. "What are you talking about?"

"Just listen to what he's saying. He's right. We're just starting to learn about our new technologies. He, on the other hand, can become a god - instantaneously – at any moment he chooses." Pym turned toward Blake. "In fact, the most likely explanation of this enemy that attacked us is that he's another being _like_ you. And just as you don't know the full extent of your powers yet, we also don't know the full extent of his."

Pym turned back to Janet. "Given what we know right now, Don's course of action makes the most sense. For that matter, who's to say it's best that he stay with us? What if we're holding him back somehow when he's around us? How do we know it's not more dangerous for him to be here, with us, rather than out there alone? We're the ones struggling to figure out how to use our weapons. He's a god."

Janet crossed her arms. "You know, for once it would be nice to hear your heart overrule your cold, calculating mind."

"Janet, please," Blake interrupted. "I appreciate what you're trying to do." Blake turned toward Pym. "And I appreciate your intellectual honesty in saying what you just did." He looked around at each of them. "But there's nothing any of you can say that will change my mind on this. If anything were to happen to _any_ of you because of me, I would never forgive myself." He looked back at Janet. "And Hank's right. I've got the power of a god, right here in my hand." He brought his staff up from the floor. "It's time I used it."

"But what will you do?" Stark asked.

Blake considered this. "I'll change into that other form, and stay in it." He looked at the staff in his hand. "Then I'll follow my hammer. I have a feeling it still has secrets to show me yet."

No one said anything for a long time. Finally, Janet broke the silence.

"And. . . when will you be back?"

"That depends on the answers I find."

Janet revised her question. "W_ill_ you be back?"

Blake repeated himself, but more thoughtfully this time. "That depends on the answers I find."

"You know, we could try to stop you," Stark said.

Blake smiled. "You remember how that worked out last time you tried it. And that was without me fighting back."

"Yeah? Well smack that cane on the floor one time, and we'll go another round."

Blake kept smiling . . . and showed no intention of striking his cane on the floor. "Tony, I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend." He looked around at the others. "As are all of you. That's why I came back instead of leaving without saying goodbye. I wanted you to know . . . ." His voice cracked. So he said nothing more.

One by one, Pym, Janet and Stark lowered their heads and stared at the table instead of at him. But no one protested any further. When Blake saw they had accepted the inevitable, he nodded.

"Alright."

He pivoted on his cane awkwardly and started toward the door. "I might as well get started. The longer I stay here, the longer I put all of you in danger." When he reached the door, he turned back. "And the longer it'll take me to find answers."

Blake scanned the room. "Well. . . this is it. Goodbye my friends."

"Wait." Stark spoke up glumly. "Let me at least get you to roof access. You can transform there without anybody seeing you. And that way this creep can't jump you walking out of the building." Stark got up, clomped across the floor, and walked Blake out.

A short time later, he returned. Pym and Janet were still sitting, silent, each staring at a different point on the table. Suddenly they heard a blast like a thunderclap from the rooftop. Janet lowered her head.

"We'll leave a light on for you," Stark said in a whisper.

After a long pause, Janet asked, "What do we do now?"

Stark shrugged, clomped over and sat down again. "The only thing we _can_ we do. We carry on."


	5. The Email

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 5: The Email**

**Stark Industries Global Headquarters, Queens, New York**

They returned to work the next morning in the patched-up lab. But the mood was different – at least for Janet. Blake's departure had gotten her thinking overnight about the weeks since the Avengers came together. They'd spent all their time here, working on the technological breakthroughs that formed a large part of their basis for coming together. But they'd spent none of their time working on the other reason they came together – Janet was no closer to finding out who killed her father, and neither Stark nor Pym had made any progress on their quests either, as far as she knew.

Suddenly, this whole "Avengers" initiative was starting to feel like a waste of time.

Pym seemed glummer too, she thought. Not that she had any first-hand knowledge. Though they were housed in next-door rooms in the living quarters of Stark's campus, she saw little of him outside the lab. He spent every waking moment here, working on the particle devices – and other projects, she didn't know what. Pym outworked even Stark, who was the only one of them free to leave the campus and have a life. Pym and Janet were still wanted by the police in connection with Pym's rampage in The Bronx.

_Dear God, how everything had gone wrong. _One day she walks out the front door of her house looking for clues as to who killed her father . . . and she never goes back. Now her father, her career, her house, her friends, were all lost to her. And she ended up here - a refugee, confined to a patch of earth no bigger than a city block, traipsing back and forth every day from the dorms to the lab, to the cafeteria (_but don't talk to anybody!_), back to the lab, then back to the dorms. And while she was grateful for the chance to continue her father's research, she had thought by now they'd be further along in their search for their loved ones' killers.

Now, with Blake's departure, they were already down a man after only a few weeks. It was a most inauspicious start for the Avengers.

Her computer beeped. She looked down to see a stream of data feeding out of an experiment she'd been running on the effects of repeated exposure to the Pym Particles. She sighed and tried transitioning her mind to the data. But she couldn't concentrate. She kept drifting back to the lost weeks, the lack of progress, the wasted time.

She massaged her temples, took a swig of her coffee, and tried again to focus on the data. Still couldn't.

Finally, she sat up and just blurted out what was going through her mind.

"Hey guys. When can we get started trying to find out who killed my father?"

"Hang on a second Janet." Pym raised up from hunching over a computer that was monitoring a test he and Stark were running. Janet stared at him, stunned by his insensitivity. But Pym just looked at Stark. "Tony, are you seeing this?"

They were testing a miniscule version of the particle discs from Pym's belt. Stark, at a workstation separate from Pym's, kept his eyes fixed on a magnifying lens through which he viewed the test disc. "Yeah. We're just not getting critical mass. I don't think it's going to work at this size."

Stark pivoted his chair toward Janet. "Janet, I'm the foremost miniaturizer in the world. But even I can't make this work."

_Well, _they _sure don't seem concerned about finding Dad's killer. _Janet stuffed her feelings down, got up and walked over to Stark. "What's the matter?"

"We can shrink you easy enough - we just put a belt on you like Hank has, with magnetized particle discs all around it. The problem lies in giving you a portable means to regrow. See, the discs don't shrink - you know that of course. Only living organisms do. So once _you_ shrink, you'd be too small to carry even one of those discs, much less a belt full of them. In fact, one of them would crush you." Stark pointed to his computer screen. "So I've been trying to make a set of really tiny discs that you could wear all the time on an expandable strap – like the repulsors – to use for regrowth. The problem is, we can't get enough of Pym's particles in a disc that small to work." Stark propped his elbow on his hand. "Right now it's a one-way ticket. I can give you a belt that will shrink you, but not one that will bring you back. You'd have to get in front of a large enough stationary Particle Device to regrow."

Pym got up and walked toward them. "And that's too dangerous, Janet. We can't let you take that risk."

Janet picked up Pym's particle belt, lying nearby. "How many of Hank's discs would it take to regrow me?"

"At that proportion, two or three would probably do it," Stark answered.

Janet looked at Pym. "So why can't you keep a couple of extra discs on your belt for me? When I need to regrow, you could take them off, put one on either side of me, and bring me back."

Pym shook his head. "Because we may not be together every minute. And what if something happens to me? Then you're stuck the size of an ant."

Janet thought about this. "Then . . . we could _stay_ together every minute. We could be partners."

Pym frowned. "Janet, this is no light matter. I'm not letting you do it. It's simply too dangerous."

Janet felt her anger start to rise. "Excuse me, who gave you final decision making authority over what I do or don't do? I'm a big enough girl to make up my own mind about what risks I'm willing to take."

"Not with my particles," Pym retorted.

"That _my_ research made usable in the first place!" Janet shot back.

Pym threw his hands up in exasperation and turned to Stark. "You tell her."

Stark still had his head resting on his hand. He cut his eyes sideways at Janet. "I think you should do it."

"What!?" Pym looked at Stark in shock.

Stark shrugged. "Hey, I'm in favor of anything that'll get Janet into that skintight suit we've designed for her."

"Oh for God's sake!" Pym and Janet said at the same time.

"Come on, at least let me show them to you." Stark got up and walked over to a cabinet unit against a far wall. He opened it and pulled out what looked like a one-piece outfit, then reached back in and fished out something Janet couldn't see. He walked back and tossed the outfit to Pym. Then he turned to Janet. "Hold out your hand." She did. He dropped a tiny, coarse, skin-toned outfit into it, so small it looked like it was made for the tiniest of baby dolls. "Go ahead," Stark said to both of them. "Try them on. We're gonna have to see if they work before you go out in them anyway."

Janet looked into her palm. "Is this a joke?"

"Here, let me show you." Stark took the tiny suit back and wiggled his pinky finger into the neck hole. The fabric gave amazingly easily. Then he reached in with the fingers of his other hand and started pulling the neck hole open. The fabric stretched . . . and stretched . . . and stretched, until the neck hole was big enough that Janet could have put her head through it.

"The whole suit is like that. You just open it up, put your legs in, then start pulling it up. It'll give." Stark grinned. "But it'll be _tight_!"

Janet looked over at Pym's outfit. The fabric draped across his arms was thick and coarse. "And his?"

"He has different issues, sweetheart." Stark leaned forward conspiratorially. "But then, you knew that already, didn't you."

Janet looked down at the tiny outfit again. She got the distinct feeling that Stark was playing her somehow. But the concept did make sense.

"Whatever." She turned and headed for her private office - Stark had made one available to each of them, just off the cavernous R&D lab. Once there, she started undressing to try the suit on. At first, she undressed to her underwear. Then she realized that wouldn't work, so she stripped naked. She took the tiny outfit, pulled the neck hole open as she'd seen Stark do, and poked her feet in. Then she started pulling it over her body. It was amazing! The fabric gave and gave, stretching ever thinner but never tearing, until she had it all the way up her torso. Then she pushed her arms into the sleeves, which she had trouble finding at first, they were still so miniscule. Finally, when she had the suit completely on, she looked down at herself . . . and immediately her anger started boiling again.

_Are you kidding me?_

Even without a mirror, she could tell that the suit left her practically naked. The fabric stretched so thin that it hugged every contour of her body like pantyhose. Worse, it was semi-sheer like pantyhose too. With its skin-tone color, even what little masking effect it _might_ have provided was minimized. Her nipples and pubic hair were easily visible.

"Jerk!" Janet yanked her clothes back on over the outfit and stormed out into the lab. Pym was already there, wearing a thick, blue one-piece. Stark was helping him check the fit.

"You're a pervert, you know that?"

Stark saw Janet steaming toward him and started backing up, grinning. "Now Janet, I can explain. Your suit _has_ to be that thin at normal size because it gets thicker as it contracts." He wheeled an office chair into Janet's path to slow her down. "If it were any thicker, it would hold you down when you shrink!"

Janet pushed the chair out of the way. "Yeah, but this is like wearing pantyhose over my whole body."

"Well, that was my fantasy anyway."

"You creep!" Janet kept coming. What about Hank's? Is his this tight too?"

"At full size, yes." Stark was still backing up. "When he's Goliath, he'll look like a ballet dancer." Stark nearly tripped over a stool. "But hey, that shouldn't bother you – you've seen his pecker that size before."

Janet growled. She picked up a coffee mug and looked like she was going to hurl it at Stark when Pym interceded.

"Janet, calm down! Tony's right - your suit's thinnest when you're normal size. Mine's thickest. We go in opposite directions, remember?"

Janet turned on him. "And there _you_ go again, taking whatever side is against _me_!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"First it was 'I can't let you take that risk.' Now it's 'calm down.' Why am _I_ always the one you're lecturing?"

Pym looked shocked. "You're delusional. You need to get a grip on yourself!"

"Do I? And here I thought I needed to find out who killed my father!" Janet was boiling over now. "You know, I'm sorry I can't be all science all the time, like you! But I have something you evidently don't! It's called a heart!" She turned on Stark. "And I'm sorry that I'm not into your little strip-tease fantasy!" She felt herself starting to cry. "But I thought we had a reason for doing all this! And now I'm trapped on this God-forsaken compound with one man who's all brain, and another who's all hormones, and no clue how to find who killed my father!" Janet slammed down the coffee mug. "Most of all, I'm sorry I ever got involved in this stupid Avengers thing!"

She turned and stormed out, fighting back tears as she raced to her office and slammed the door.

She paced, anger still roiling inside her. She took deep breaths and fought back the tears. She didn't want to give those bastards the satisfaction of finding yet another reason to disdain her: crying like a _girl_.

The more she paced, the more control she got. Slowly, she began to calm. The tears withdrew, her breathing eased, and she started thinking clearly again. Getting away from Pym and Stark helped. She had just moved around the desk and sat down when she heard a soft tap at the door. She thought about ignoring it. Finally, she bellowed a crude "What!?"

The door opened, and Pym stuck his head in. "Hey."

"What do you want?"

Pym stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

_Yeah? Well you should be!_ That's what she felt like saying. But she didn't.

Pym sat down opposite her. "I think being cooped up on this campus is starting to get to both of us. And when I get stressed, I tend to bury myself in my work. At least, that's what Maria always told me." Pym winced, as if his deceased wife's name brought a spasm of pain.

He sat back. "Truth is, I think part of the reason I've been working so hard is to deaden the pain of remembering her." He looked at Janet. "But you're right. We haven't made any progress on finding whoever killed her _or_ your father. And we mustn't lose sight of that."

Janet shrugged darkly. "Not that Mr. Sex-Hound out there cares."

She saw Pym tense slightly at the mention of Stark.

"You know, you shouldn't let him talk to you the way he does," he said.

"Oh? And what would you suggest I do, file a complaint with the EOC?"

"No, Janet!" Pym instantly got exasperated at her – _again_, it seemed to Janet. "You can stand up for yourself. Tell him to leave you alone."

"Or maybe you could try taking my side against him once in a while."

"I _would_ . . . ." Pym hesitated. "If I felt sure you didn't really _want_ his attentions."

Janet was already opening her mouth to speak again when she stopped and closed it. Did she just hear Pym right? If she didn't know better, she'd say that was a hint of _jealousy_ coming from Pym.

"Uh, just for the record, most women don't prefer the kinds of attentions that involve being treated like a personal lap dancer." Even as Janet said it, she could feel the slightest play of a smile tugging at her lips. She couldn't help it. Pym was so earnest, so brilliant, and so clueless, all at the same time, she sometimes found him cute.

Pym must have seen the half-smile. He looked at her in silence for a second, then exhaled a little laugh at his own clumsiness. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

Janet plopped her arms on the desk. "Hank, what are we doing here?"

"We're becoming this . . . Avengers thing. We'll work it all out. You'll see."

"Yes, but all I really wanted was to help you with your research and find out who killed my father." She lowered her head to her arms, folded in front of her on the desk. "And I don't have a clue where to start." She looked back up at Pym. "How am I supposed to find Dad's killer when I'm cooped up here?"

Pym shook his head. "I'm no criminal investigator. I don't know. Have you tried checking his email?"

"What good would that do?"

"I don't know. Maybe you'd find something suspicious. A clue. Maybe someone unusual who'd been in contact with him before he died or something."

Janet thought about this. It seemed worth a try.

"Alright," she said. "If nothing else, it'll give me a break from nonstop experiments."

"Alright then." Pym looked around awkwardly. "Well, I guess I'll get back to work." He got up to leave. "Since I'm 'all science all the time.'"

Janet smiled. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, I . . . ." Pym shrugged. "I probably deserved it." He turned and opened the door.

"Hey," she called after him. He turned. "Thanks for coming in." Pym nodded, then slipped out, closing the door behind him. Janet stared at the door a moment. Then she sighed and turned to her computer.

She knew all of her father's email accounts and passwords of course, so she quickly got into one and started searching around. She pored over old emails from fellow scientists, relatives, neighbors, looking for anything out of the ordinary. She found nothing. She looked through all of his folders – maybe an unusual contact from someone who had no reason to reach out to him. Still nothing.

She kept at it for two or three hours, conducting the same thorough search through all her father's email accounts. Each time, she came up empty. She rubbed her forehead and sat back, trying to think of what to do next.

Suddenly, it dawned on her that she hadn't checked her _own_ email since this whole Avengers thing started. She quickly typed in her user name and password . . . and her heart sank - 1,477 unread emails.

She groaned and sat back in the chair again. _This is going to take forever_.

She started scanning down the list, looking for spam, advertisements, anything she could delete or dispatch with quickly. Suddenly, she stopped cold. Her heart jumped into her throat.

How could this be? She'd spent hours scouring her father's email. Could this one really have been sitting in her _own_ account all this time?

It was from what looked like might be a departmental email address in a genetics school at the University of Oxford. But that wasn't what grabbed her attention. What grabbed her attention was the subject line:

_I KNOW ABOUT YOUR FATHER'S RESEARCH._


	6. The Chance Janet Takes

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 6: The Chance Janet Takes**

**New York**

The email had been sitting in Janet's inbox for ten days. She opened it.

Dear Ms. van Dyne, I apologize for the somewhat sensational subject line of my email, but I feared it being discarded since you won't recognize my name. I hope you are as well as can be hoped in view of your recent loss, regarding which please accept my sincerest condolences. I should very much like to discuss the above subject with you, but think it best not to say more electronically. Can we meet to discuss in person? I travel frequently to the United States and would be pleased to meet you at any time and place convenient for you.

I will remain hopeful for your reply.

Sir Edward Percy

Functional Genetics Unit

Department of Physiology, Anatomy and Genetics

University of Oxford

Janet sat back. _Is this for real?_

She clicked on the link to the Oxford website contained in the email. Sure enough, Edward Percy – _Sir_ Edward Percy – was listed among the faculty. And what a resume! Repeated publications in genetics journals, guest lectures at academic institutions on five continents, research interests in a half-dozen sub-specialties. From her background in academia, Janet could tell immediately this guy was a rock star.

She also knew it would be risky to reply. Stark had warned her that her usual email accounts might be monitored. But she desperately wanted to find out anything she could about who might have killed her father, and this guy was the first possibility for help since she'd walked out the front door of her house to go meet Pym.

She got an idea. She quickly created a new email account, then hammered out as earnest but vague a response as possible, and hit send. She intended then to return to her email backlog. But to her surprise, a reply from Percy came back within seconds. It read: "Thank you for your reply! By coincidence I am in New York. Can we meet?"

_That was fast_. Janet decided to remain interested but evasive. Besides, she wasn't sure Stark would want her wandering off from headquarters. To say nothing of being noticed by the police.

To say nothing of running off to meet a man she'd only just met via email.

She typed back: "Unfortunately, I'm not in a situation conducive to meeting right now."

After a short delay, another reply arrived. "I am sorry to hear it, as I must leave for England tomorrow. I trust you are taking appropriate security precautions, considering the unfortunate 'interest' shown in your father's work. Take care, and I hope we may have the opportunity to meet on my next visit to the States."

Janet gasped. This guy knew more than she realized. She couldn't afford to let him get away. She quickly typed back: "Tell you what, please call me at this number . . . ." Within seconds, her Stark-issued cell phone rang. She took a deep breath and answered.

"Ms. van Dyne?" The voice was smooth, deeply masculine but imminently professional. And with an impeccable British accent.

"Yes?"

"This is Edward Percy. Thank you so much for taking my call."

Janet stammered. "N—no, thank you for contacting me." Sheesh. Janet realized she hadn't been on a phone call of a professional nature in weeks. She was rusty.

"I apologize for what I'm sure must seem like a most aggressive inquiry. But your father and I worked together once, and . . . ." His sentence trailed off. Janet interpreted this as sentiment.

"I understand," Janet replied. "How did you know him?"

"Ms. van Dyne, I don't wish to sound paranoid, but I really don't trust electronic communications. Is there _any_ way we could meet in person? I've hired a car which I would be happy to send 'round for you. We could meet any place you like."

Janet hesitated. She didn't dare tell this stranger about her real situation. "Well . . . I'm not exactly at liberty to meet right now."

"Janet." The voice became suddenly very earnest. "I think I know what you mean. If your father's death was in any way related to his research, you may be a bit . . . compromised in your freedom to move about. I don't know if it makes any difference, but I can assure you complete confidentiality, security and privacy if we meet. No one would know."

Janet felt a lump in her throat so big that when she swallowed, she felt sure Percy must have heard it through the phone. She'd never felt so unsure of anything in her life. How could this man surmise so much about her situation just from having worked with her father once? And how could her father have worked with a leading academic at Oxford and never mentioned it? All her senses were tingling with the fear that she might be getting into something way bigger than she wanted. But her desire to find out any clues about her father's killer overrode all else.

At last she answered him. "Tell you what. Send the car to the front gate of Stark Industries' headquarters in Queens. There's a little coffee shop in College Point, right on the Boulevard. I'll meet you there. Deal?"

"Janet I can't thank you enough! I'll have the car there in exactly one hour."

She hung up. Then she realized she confronted another decision: _what do I tell the boys?_ She thought about this a while, then got up and walked back into the lab – to a development that surprised her. Stark and Pym were in an argument.

" . . . but she was the _only_ reason I joined this team," Pym was shouting, "and I made it a condition of my participation! I know you remember that!"

"Yeah, just like I remember paying five hundred million dollars to clean up a little mess you made in The Bronx."

"What's that got to do with it?"

Stark was strutting around, gesturing as he talked. "Because it's _my_ money you're living on, pal. _My_ company your hiding out in. I think that gives me a little bit more say in this than you or Janet."

Janet walked in. "Say in what?"

Stark and Pym both turned and looked at her. Stark was at his cockiest.

"Don't trouble your pretty little head about it, sweetheart. You just go back and play in the office _I_ provided you, and I'll let you know what we decide."

Janet was dumbfounded. "What? What are you talking about?"

Pym made a gesture in the air of pushing her away. "Janet, not now, okay?"

Now Janet was truly thunderstruck. What happened to the compassionate Pym that had left her office a few hours ago?

"You know what? Fine!" She turned and stalked off. "Don't wait up for me!" But she doubted they heard that last part. As soon as she turned her back, they started arguing again.

Even through her fury at this fresh round of condescension thrown at her, she wondered what they were arguing about. But she wasn't going to worry her "pretty little head" about it. They were jerks – Stark especially. They didn't have the _right_ to know where she was going, or what she was doing. And they had helped clarify one thing in her mind: she _had_ to get out of this place.

She went back to her room in the living quarters and got ready – including taking off the stupid skin suit Stark had put her in - then started out for the considerable walk to the campus front gate. When she got there, the guards of course let her through. They had no idea she wasn't supposed to be leaving –they'd never have seen her before, and anyway, their job was to keep people _out_, not in. She walked out to the small turnaround in the street outside the gate, and waited.

She didn't have to wait long. The car arrived exactly one hour from the moment she hung up the phone with Percy, just like he said. It pulled up to the curb, and a dapper young driver popped out. "Ms. van Dyne?"

Janet thought she vaguely nodded at the man. But she couldn't be sure. She was too transfixed by the car. The driver trotted around and opened the door for her, and she slid into the most luxurious leather seat she'd ever seen. "This is his _rental_ car?"

The driver grinned. "Only the best." He shut the door and started around to the driver's side.

Alone for a second, Janet mumbled to herself: "I'm not sure I've ever ridden in a Rolls Royce before."


	7. Sir Percy

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 7: Sir Percy**

**Beavie's Coffee Shop, Queens, New York**

When the Rolls pulled up in front of the coffee shop, Janet wished she'd suggested someplace a little fancier. The car was longer than the shop front. The driver bobbed around and opened the door for her, and she stepped out.

"Is he here?"

"He was when I left him here to go pick you up." The driver shut the car door, then trotted over and opened the door to the café. Janet stepped inside.

A handful of patrons were scattered among the tables. Janet leaned back to the ask the driver, who was still holding the door: "How will I recognize him?"

The driver's laugh caught him so unexpectedly he nearly spit. "Uh . . . trust me. You'll know."

He closed the door, and Janet turned back toward the patrons. The young couple close by to her right wouldn't be who she was looking for. But there was an older man with a full gray beard sitting in a window booth against the wall. She took a step toward him, only then to notice he was wearing suspenders. She somehow didn't think this Edward Percy was one to wear suspenders.

She turned back to her left to look down the aisle of booths that ran the depth of the coffee shop . . . and saw someone who made her catch her breath.

Coming toward her was a tall, elegant gentleman, striding confidently forward, complete with cape and cane. A slender face with prominent cheekbones was set with coal gray eyes. A full head of jet black hair was pulled straight back. His goatee was as black as his hair – not a hint of gray.

He was young! Probably only a few years older than Janet. She hadn't expected this – she assumed anyone with Percy's academic background and a "Sir" in front of his name must have lived a long time to accomplish it. She found herself thinking she might have gotten herself into something bigger than she wanted, but in an entirely different way now. The man carried himself with such authority, yet grace, the coffee shop seemed to shrink around him by comparison.

"Ms. van Dyne," he said in that impeccable British accent as he approached. He stopped a few paces away.

Janet found it surprisingly hard to speak. "Yes."

"I'm Edward Percy." He gestured behind himself. "Please. I've taken the liberty of securing a booth in the back, where we can talk privately. I hope that's alright."

"Yes . . . of course."

He led Janet to the very last booth against the back wall of the narrow restaurant. He then extended his hand to help her into the seat.

As he settled in across from her, she stammered. "I . . . apologize. I realize now I should have picked a nicer place."

Percy waved his hand. "Not at all! Truthfully, I find it a refreshing change of pace from Manhattan. It always feels a bit _confining_ to me in there."

Janet smiled. She would have loved to be in Manhattan right now. "Well, after I saw the car . . . ."

"Oh my. I hope it didn't put you off." Percy seemed genuinely embarrassed. "It's just . . . . Well, may I be a bit transparent with you, though we've just met?"

"Of course," Janet said.

"Well, it's always seemed to me that Americans have to be _impressed_ – you know? – before they'll listen to what you have to say. Once they learn a bit about me, the car seems to be what they expect. So I give it to them. It's more efficient that way." He sighed. "But I do wish people would simply accept each other on their own terms."

Janet liked this guy. "Listen, I can't thank you enough for meeting me on such short notice."

"Ms. van Dyne, it is I who should be thanking you."

"Please, call me Janet." Something about this guy was instantly charming. Janet was having a hard time keeping in mind he was a Knight of the British Order.

"Very well . . . Janet. Then call me Edward."

Janet giggled – then inwardly was appalled at having done so. "So what brings you to New York?"

"A . . . meeting," Percy hesitated slightly.

"Oh? Genetics conference?"

"Ah, I see you've done your homework on me." Percy smiled. "Yes, there's one taking place almost every week of the year somewhere in the world."

Janet nodded. Then was aghast to realize she had no idea what to say next. Percy came to her rescue.

"Before we go any further, what do you say we order coffee?" He produced a plastic-coated menu from a holster against the wall, and slid it toward her with a wry smile. "And I must say, if the quality of the coffee in this establishment equals that of the plastic and vinyl, I fully expect one of the finest cups of my life."

He said it with such a twinkle in his eye and a playful twist of a smile on his lips, that Janet couldn't help but burst out laughing. Then he broke out in a warm, hearty laugh himself. "Forgive me," he said, still laughing. "But you seem so self-conscious about the place, and I _truly_ want you know you needn't be. I'm just delighted at last to be talking with the daughter of Vernon van Dyne."

Janet's laughter migrated into a wistful sigh at the mention of her father. "So you never told me how you knew him."

"Right. Well, one of my interest areas is evolutionary genetics – the study of genetic changes that cause, or are caused by, evolutionary progress. One of the characteristics of evolutionary change that interests me is resistance and immunity – how organisms sometimes evolve, say, a natural immunity to a substance that's toxic to other species. Or resistance to a stimulus. The applications of such research are staggering to consider of course – imagine manipulating the genes of a bacterium to prevent it from developing resistance to antibiotics, for example. All of our fears about antibiotic-resistant bacteria would be eased."

"Anyway, several years ago I read in one of my journals that your father was working on resistance, albeit not genetics. So I contacted him. We shared some data and I think both definitely saw potential. But alas, I gather your father was still looking for a breakthrough when he was killed."

"He was," Janet answered. She leaned forward for emphasis. "But I think I've been able to find it."

Percy was impressed; it registered in his eyes. "Indeed? May I ask what it was?"

"Nanomanipulation," Janet said. "Achieve the correct nano-alignment of melatonin and certain other substances, in just the right order, and you can give the body resistance."

"To what?" Percy was leaning close, too.

"Radiation was what Dad was working on. As for what else is possible – which substances and which alignments will provide immunity to which stimuli - we're really only scratching the surface right now."

Percy's eyes widened with interest. "Radiation," he repeated softly. Then a shadow passed across his face. "Alas, the motivation of his killer becomes clear."

Janet nodded agreement. Then she thought of something. "How did you know my father was murdered?"

"It was in one of the e-journals I take. Your father was respected in many fields of research. His death, sadly, made news across the globe."

Janet nodded again.

"If I may," Percy continued. "Earlier you said 'we' are only scratching the surface. I take it you have research partners?"

"Yes," Janet began enthusiastically. Then stopped herself before she said more. Their initiative was supposed to remain a secret.

Percy looked concerned. "Are you certain that's entirely . . . safe? I mean, if your father was indeed killed over his research, isn't it possible whoever killed him may come after you?"

Janet hesitated over what to say. "I think I'll be alright. As much as I can be, anyway."

Percy didn't seem convinced. "Janet, even though you and I have just met, I considered your father a valued colleague. And I know he would want his daughter well cared for after his passing. Indeed, having met you, I have no doubt you were the apple of his eye. You are positively lovely."

Janet had to fight the urge to push her hair back behind her ear self-consciously.

"So I want you to look me in the eye and promise me, as a man . . . . Are. You. Safe?" He leaned slightly closer with each word, as if driving home his point. His gaze was dead level and earnest.

Janet was deeply moved by this man's concern for her. As a result, she wavered, ever so slightly. The images of the recent attack on their lab by Blake's enemy raced through her mind. She didn't want to invite any further inquiry by Percy into the Avengers project. But she wasn't going to sit here and lie to him, either. They _weren't_ safe. They all knew it. Not as long as that . . . _entity_ . . . was still out there.

"Mr. Percy," Janet began.

He immediately interrupted. "Edward."

"Edward," she began again. She shook her head in hesitancy. "I think I'm as safe as can be expected." She paused. "But I do worry. I won't lie to you."

Percy continued to hold her with that concerned gaze. Then he reached into his shirt pocket and fished out a business card. "Tell you what." He turned it over and wrote something on the back. "Here is my card. And on the reverse, I've written my _personal_ cell phone number. Only about a dozen people around the world have this." He slid the card across the table to her. "If at any time . . . _any_ time . . . I may be of any service or assistance to you at all . . . _anything_ . . . I beg of you, please do not hesitate to call that number."

Janet took the card. The familiar University of Oxford logo was stamped on the front. "Alright," she said, swallowing hard. "Thank you."

He kept staring at her a few seconds more. Then he sighed and sat back. "Well, I do believe we have neglected our coffee order. Tell you what: why don't we order, and then I'd love to hear more about these nanomanipulations you're doing. They sound fascinating."

After the coffee arrived, they spent the next two-and-a-half hours discussing Janet's research. Janet was amazed. Outside of her father and Pym, Janet had never found anyone she could talk to about her work and have them understand it. Even Stark lost interest once he realized it didn't involve machines, gadgets or weapons. Yet Percy kept pace, word for word . . . even asking probing questions here and there that gave Janet ideas for new research directions. And through it all, he managed to interject witty comments and clever turns of phrase, even about a subject as dry as nanomanipulation. The time flew by.

At last, Percy sat back again. "Janet, this has been a real pleasure for me. I haven't enjoyed a conversation like this in . . . ." He shook his head. "I can't remember!" He laughed.

Janet laughed too, and felt deeply flattered.

"In fact," he went on, "I must say I haven't enjoyed an _evening_ this much in years!"

Janet couldn't believe this. She hadn't enjoyed an evening this much in years, either. But s_he_ wasn't a Knight of the British Empire!

"Me either," she stammered back.

"You truly are a beautiful woman," Percy went on. "Beautiful of mind, and beautiful to behold. You've honored me with your presence tonight."

Janet felt ridiculous. "What? Here in my five-star dining room?"

Percy laughed. "It was the _company_ that made all the difference." He pulled out a pocket watch and checked it. "But unfortunately, I'm afraid I must be going. I have a flight back to England in the morning. And you had better get back, too." He stood. "I'll have my driver take you while I settle up here."

"Oh no—" Janet started.

"I insist," Percy interrupted. "We're only a stone's throw from Stark's front gate, aren't we? He can drop you off and be back before I have my change."

Janet smiled and thanked him. Percy took her hand and kissed it. "Again, thank you so much for meeting me." The look in his eyes bespoke genuine admiration . . . and maybe something a bit more. "I bid you a pleasant evening." He kissed her hand again, then walked her to the door.

The driver was there to open it, and she stepped out into the fresh night air. The Rolls looked like a train car, monopolizing so much curb space. She slid back into the hand-crafted leather seats, the driver closed the door . . .

. . . and Janet exhaled gigantically.

"Oh my God! I haven't enjoyed a date that much since high school!"

Then she caught herself. _Did I say date?_

The driver opened his door and slid behind the wheel. Janet collected herself.

"Well, how was your evening?" the driver asked.

"Fine."

"And how did Sir Percy find the coffee?" The driver was obviously practiced at making small talk with his passengers. But Janet really didn't want to talk about her date with him.

"I think okay." She got an idea. "Say, do you drive for him everywhere he goes?"

He glanced at her in the rear view mirror. "Only when he comes to New York. Why?"

"I was just thinking, if this is his _rental_ car, I'd love to know what he drives at home."

"He doesn't drive. He has drivers everywhere, even at home."

Janet amended her statement. "Well . . . I'd love to see what he _rides_ then."

The driver smiled at her in the rear view mirror. "Winged steeds, I'm sure."

Janet chuckled. "No doubt."


	8. Clarity

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 8: Clarity**

**Stark Industries Global Headquarters, Queens, New York **

Pym looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a cross between Blue Man Group, a ballet dancer, and a farmer – one fond of yellow suspenders at that. But Stark had thought of everything.

The suspenders, which were thick, wide and close together when Pym was at normal size, contained spools on the underside that were rolled with what Pym liked to call "Iron Man foil" – ultra-thin sheets of the same alloy as Stark's Iron Man suit that would unspool as he grew, and protect his torso from bullets and other hazards they were likely to encounter. As a fashion statement, even Pym found it lacking. But as an outfit that would accommodate his growth and provide him some protection, it was unbeatable.

Just then, Stark walked in for the morning. "Hey, looking snazzy there big boy!"

Pym laughed and turned to him. "The yellow boxer shorts are a nice touch. Couldn't you give me something more . . . subtle?" The shorts were designed to be worn outside the one-piece and be big and baggy when Pym was at normal size, then snug up as he grew. But not too much. That was the point.

Stark looked at Pym like he was crazy. "Why would you want to go subtle when you can grow your pecker to six feet long?"

Just then, Janet walked in. "Sounds like you're still talking about your favorite subject," she shot at Stark.

"Well good morning, Sunshine," Stark called back. "I wasn't sure if we'd ever see you again after the way you stormed out of here last night." Stark cleared his throat. "And for the record, _his_ pecker is _not_ my favorite subject."

Janet grinned and sat down at her work station. But she didn't reply with any of the obvious snappy comebacks available. Pym walked over to her.

"You sure seem in a better mood this morning."

Janet looked up at him and smiled. "Oh, well . . . you know, a good night's sleep, a chance to unwind a little . . . ."

Her answer seemed a little superficial to Pym. But he didn't say anything. "So Tony," he called over to Stark. "Now that Janet's here, let's try again: tell me about this fabric."

Stark walked over. "Well, the fibers essentially fold and unfold on themselves. When combined with their elasticity, this gives them the flexibility they need to shrink and grow with your bodies. They're also hollow, which makes the fabric lightweight. But they retract into a tightly compact and rigid framework, so when you're at your smallest size, they actually provide some protective capability, like body armor." Stark looked around and found a screwdriver. "Here, see?" Without warning, he plunged the screwdriver toward Pym's chest. It bounced off harmlessly.

"They'll even stop a small caliber bullet if it's not a straight shot from point blank range."

Pym was impressed. Stark turned to Janet.

"So . . . at risk of bringing up a _very_ touchy subject . . ." he looked at her sideways, as if asking permission to go on.

"Go ahead," Janet replied.

Stark continued. "This means that when _you_ are at your engagement size – which is to say, at your smallest and most vulnerable - your outfitoffers its greatest protection."

Stark turned back to Pym. "But you on the other hand . . . when you grow, your suit gets thinner, and the protection goes away. That's why I developed the suspenders."

"Very fashionable," Janet added.

"Unfortunately, your head, arms and legs will still be vulnerable," Stark continued. "I can make you a headpiece to protect that brilliant brain of yours. But not one that will stretch with you. You'll have to put it on after you grow."

"And what about _my_ head?" Janet asked.

Stark turned to her. "I can make a headpiece for you, too, if you want. But there's one major difference between you and him. When he's at engagement size, he's a huge target. Everybody'll be taking shots at him. When _you're_ at engagement size, you're virtually invisible. That's not to say you couldn't get hit with a stray shot. But no one will be aiming for you. They'll hardly be able to _see_ you."

Janet stepped over and tried to tug at the thick, coarse fabric of Pym's outfit. It wouldn't budge.

"Oh," Stark went on, talking to Janet. "And I have something else for you."

"If it's another outfit that I'm wearing in one of your wet dreams, you can skip it," Janet replied.

Stark put on the goofiest-looking set of eyeglasses Pym had ever seen – like two magnifying glasses attached to a strap. Then he bent over and started looking around on a nearby counter. "Well, my dear," he said to Janet, "this will prove that I _do_ have your best interests at heart." He found what he was looking for, raised up, and pulled off the goggles. He walked over and – for what seemed like the umpteenth time this week – dropped something into Janet's hand so tiny Pym couldn't see it.

"Stingers," he announced. Janet studied what was in her palm.

"Stingers?" Pym asked.

"Repulsors even tinier than her propulsion packs, attenuated for offense, like the ones in my gauntlets. You can wear one on each wrist. If you get into trouble and need a little _sting_ to get you out, you can press a button in your palm and these babies will fire. Because they're so tiny, I can't give you the kill power of mine. But it'll be enough to give a normal-sized person a jolt they won't soon forget. Might buy you enough time to get out of a jam."

Janet looked at Stark with genuine appreciation in her eyes. "So you _do_ think about something other than sex."

Stark raised his eyebrows. "I think about _cars_ sometimes."

Pym felt a simmer of resentment rising inside him. Given the way Stark constantly harassed Janet, he couldn't believe she would have any respect left for him. It bothered him that she did – or seemed to.

"Anyway, my dear," Stark went on. "This means that _you_ have got to get practicing."

Janet looked puzzled. "Practicing what?"

"Uh, you're just going to strap on a couple of repulsors, take off flying, and go fight bad guys? Even I had to practice."

"Does it mean putting that outfit back on?"

Stark's lascivious grin returned. "Unless you'd rather fly nude."

Janet shook her head. "I only put on that outfit again on one condition: make it black. I don't like the see-through look."

Stark feigned irritation. "Want me to put a few of those little yellow stripy treatments on there too, to match your moniker . . . to match your _personality_?"

Janet was unfazed. "That'll be fine. The more coverage, the better."

"Fine. In the meantime, why don't you go get changed into the outfit you _have_, and I'll get the new one under way."

Pym interrupted. "Uh, hang on a second Janet. I think you should stay for something." He didn't like the way Stark was giving orders to Janet, as if he called the shots around here. He'd been thinking about something since last night, so he decided this was a good time to bring it up. Janet and Stark both looked at him.

"So if my outfit's ready, and Janet's is about to be, and we've got all our weapons, and Janet's going to practice and all that . . . then, we're close, right?"

"You got it, big guy." Stark sounded supremely confident.

"Close to what?" Janet asked.

"Close to being ready for our first . . . mission, I guess you'd call it." Pym turned back to Stark. "And that brings us to the open issue from last night."

"Uh oh, here we go," Stark sniped.

Janet suddenly looked interested. "Open issue?"

"Yes. Namely, which mission to undertake first: find Maria's killer, your Dad's killer, or Tony's parents' killer."

"Is this what you guys were arguing about last night?"

"_He_ was arguing." Stark shrugged. "I was merely asking what five hundred million dollars buys these days."

Pym wanted to set the record straight. "Yes, Janet, this is what we were arguing about. But in fairness, we shouldn't have been having that discussion without you."

"Oh. Well, sadly, I still don't have a clue where to start looking for Dad's killer."

Stark picked up a tablet device from a counter, punched in some commands, and started looking at it. "Well, we did manage to get a security team into your house to do a sweep. Unfortunately, they found the same thing the police and the military found: nothing. Whoever broke into your father's study was a professional."

Pym couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Wait a minute!" He could hear his voice already starting to rise in anger. He pointed to the tablet. "What's that?"

"This? An iPad. Modified of course: Apple's tech is a little primitive for my-"

"That's not what I meant!" Pym interrupted. "What are you looking at? You've got a file on Janet's father?"

"Umm."

"Have you got one on Maria?"

"Now hang on. I can explain—"

"You didn't say anything about this last night!"

"That's because I just got it yesterday. I hadn't had a chance to read it last night."

"So what does it say?"

"Look, I think we need to have a rational discussion about this before we start talking about what's in these files, okay?"

"Rational? My wife was murdered right before my eyes! How am I supposed to be rational about that!?"

"Well, that's exactly my concern, actually."

"What's that supposed to mean!?"

"Umm, for the record, what exactly do you plan to do when you find Maria's killer?"

Pym's blood felt like it was starting to boil inside his head. He'd envisioned that moment a million times since his wife's death – the moment he had Maria's murderer in his giant hands - and he knew full well what he planned to do.

"I'm going to rip his goddamn body apart." Pym's voice sounded almost unfamiliar, even to himself – like a demon had awakened inside him. His head swam with rage. "Limb from limb."

"Yeah, okay, so . . . _that's_ what we need to talk about," Stark said.

"What's there to talk about!?"

Janet suddenly spoke up. "Hank, you can't mean that."

Pym looked at her. "Of course I mean it. The man kicked and beat and stabbed my wife to death. He has to pay!"

"He _will_ pay," Janet replied. "But we can't go around taking revenge on people just because their crimes happened to be committed against us."

"Oh? Then what do you suggest we do, dial 9-1-1?"

"No, Hank, we catch them, but we turn them in," Janet said. "We use our powers to do what ordinary people can't, but we stop there. We turn them over to the authorities."

"Are you kidding me? So they just be turned loose by corrupt officials?"

"No," Janet replied. "So they can face justice."

"Some crimes don't _need_ justice," Pym argued back. "They just need to be punished!"

"No they don't," Janet said. "Not by us."

Pym couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Guys, I thought we were clear on this. This is why I joined the team. Why are we even calling ourselves the Avengers if we're not going to avenge anybody? Why not call ourselves the 'Justice League' or something?"

"Because that would be a dumb name." Stark crossed his arms. "Look, we _are_ going to avenge them . . . by _bringing_ them to justice. These people aren't going to get away with it. But we have to be clear on this. I don't want to get to Belgrade and have to attack _you_ to keep you from killing somebody."

"So we're going to Belgrade first?"

"I didn't say that."

Pym threw his hands up. "I don't believe this." He turned to Janet again. "Janet, please. We agreed on this."

Janet looked at him, disappointment written vividly on her face. "No, Hank, we didn't. Not if this is what you meant by 'avenge.' I'm not some vigilante. And neither are you. Come on, Hank, you're above this."

Pym put his hands on the sides of his head. "Above what? Above the memory of the sound of knives slicing up my wife's flesh?"

"Hank—"

"Above the sight of her mouth, frozen open in a scream for me to help her, while all I can do is look on like some pathetic weakling!"

"Hank, that's not what I meant!"

"Then what _did_ you mean, Janet? I'm not supposed to avenge that?"

"Hank, we've all been hurt. Okay? I _found_ my father's body, remember? I saw what they did to him. But that still doesn't justify taking the law into my own hands."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd watched them kill him."

Janet stared at Pym like she was trying to decide whether to slap him or walk away. In the end, when she responded, her tone was icy.

"I'd like to think that my higher self would inhibit my baser instincts."

Pym's head reeled in disbelief. So that's what she thought of him? His mission, his sole reason for living, his quest to avenge Maria's death – that was nothing more than "baser instincts" to Janet? He felt like his spirit was being ground to dust inside him.

"Janet," he resumed, weakly. "You _saw_ what this did to me. You remember the state I was in when you found me."

Janet stepped close. "I didn't find _you_, Hank. I found a man who'd lost his way." Janet looked like she might put a hand on his shoulder; she didn't. "But I always expected you to come back. I expected the real Henry Pym to come back."

Pym slumped into a chair. Dredging back to the surface those fetid days after Maria's death made him feel like his mind was about to capsize - a feeling made worse by hearing Janet say these things. How could she turn on him like this? Avenging Maria was the deepest part of who he was right now. How could she not know that? Yet to her, it was nothing but a disappointment - he could see it in her eyes. He felt humiliated.

And what about all those vulnerable days they'd spent together, when she nursed him back to health and helped him with his research? Had she only tolerated them because she was waiting for the "real" Pym to come back? What about the tenderness he felt for her – despite the guilt-ravaging talons it sunk into him. Had she felt none of that?

Pym stared at the floor.

Stark held up his iPad. He spoke hesitantly. "So . . . do we still want to discuss this right now?"

Pym shook his head. "No. I don't want to talk about this anymore right now."

Stark nodded and put the iPad down. Pym heard him say to Janet softly, "Why don't you go ahead and start practicing then." Janet nodded and walked off. Stark turned back to Pym.

"Just so you know, I _do_ have a file on Maria's killer." He walked over and patted Pym on the shoulder. "Whenever you're ready."


	9. Drawn, Soared

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 9: Drawn, Soared**

**New York **

Janet shook off the vertigo she felt every time she shrank. Her contributions to Pym's particle device had warded off the fainting that had previously accompanied size change. But there was nothing you could do about its effect on the human sensory system. The brain just couldn't adjust that fast to seeing everything from the perspective of a half-inch tall.

Stark had left Janet a set of instructions for safely testing her "wing" repulsors. Standing in a wide open area of floor, she adjusted the repulsors to 1 percent capacity using tiny control panels embedded in the palms of her outfit. She pressed the button. The repulsors fired – it sounded like a jet engine to her. But she knew "up there," at the size of a normal human, their sound would be virtually inaudible.

Slowly she increased the capacity until her feet left the ground. She hovered uneasily, but stably, a few inches above the floor. The wing design gave Stark the opportunity to mount multiple repulsors in each unit, at slightly varying thrust angles. This gave greater stability to Janet than Stark had in his Iron Man suit.

Janet increased the capacity more. She began to gather speed, traveling straight up. She leaned her body forward and arced in the same direction.

She was flying!

She twisted her torso, first left, then right, changing her flight trajectory each time. She found it exhilarating. As she felt her abdomen muscles move, she realized it had been a while since she'd worked out. But her old athleticism was still there. Her body gracefully adjusted to the moves required to control her flight path.

Janet arced and soared, swooped low over a desktop, rocketed toward an air vent in the ceiling – then cut capacity to avoid hitting it. The wings responded perfectly. This was going to be a breeze!

For two hours she practiced every maneuver she could think of. She also tested her stingers. Everything worked to perfection. She was just about to go for another speed circuit of the room when she heard her cell phone ring. She was nimble enough already that she swooped down to the particle device, grew back to normal size, shook off the vertigo, and was able to pick up the phone before it stopped ringing.

But shaking off the vertigo didn't help her shake off the surprise when she glanced at the number on the screen. She recognized it immediately, because she'd been given it only the night before – it was the personal number of Sir Edward Percy. She answered.

"Janet?"

"Hi . . . Edward." Janet was a little winded from the flying. She hoped her voice didn't sound nervous – even though she was.

"I trust you had a good night."

"I did. And you?" Janet wasn't sure where this was going.

"Yes," Percy answered. But he said nothing more.

"Aren't you supposed to be on a flight to London right now?"

"Yes. I am." Percy paused again. This wasn't like him. He'd been the pinnacle of eloquence last night.

"Is everything alright?"

"Janet, I realize this is a going to be a bit . . . unorthodox, but . . . ." Percy hesitated. "Well . . . I had such an enjoyable time last night that I took the liberty of postponing my flight back to England. And . . . I was wondering if we might . . . have dinner tonight."

Janet nearly dropped the phone. It hadn't even occurred to her that this was a possibility. She answered almost before she had a chance to think about it.

"I'd love to!"

Then she wondered if she should have worked a bit more coyness into it.

"Wonderful!" Percy's fluency returned. "I have a place in mind that I think you'll like. But the same promise holds – I assure you absolute privacy and anonymity. No one will know where you are. Shall I have the car come 'round for you again?"

"That'd be great."

"What time?"

Janet looked at her watch on the desk. "Why don't we say seven?"

"Seven is perfect. I'll see you then."

Janet ended the call and took a deep breath. _Oh my God. A Knight of the British Order wants to take me to dinner?_ She was accustomed to moving in the circles of New York's wealthy and connected, thanks to her position at Yale. But this was a whole new level of it.

She swallowed hard. Many more hours of flight practice to go – and she could tell already she'd have trouble keeping her mind on it.

Or maybe not. Flying was exactly what she felt doing right now.

The same Rolls Royce with the same driver met her outside the Stark Industries gate. After last night had gone so well, with no harm done, Janet didn't even consider telling Stark or Pym she was leaving.

Her anticipation grew when the Rolls pulled onto the expressway headed toward the city. It grew even more as the car soared out over the Triborough Bridge, and she saw the Manhattan skyline up close for the first time since she'd come to Stark Industries. She felt like a woman who'd been in prison, at last set free. As the car plunged into the concrete and steel forest of Manhattan, she was like a kid on vacation – gawking at the lights, gazing at the buildings . . . and jealous of the people she saw walking thick and fast on the sidewalks. So free to live their lives. So anonymous in the crowds of New York.

The Rolls pulled up to a nondescript metal door on the back side of a skyscraper, and Janet tensed briefly. _Where is he taking me? _ But the door opened as soon as the car came to a stop, and a young man in a hotel uniform held it open. She realized this must be part of the privacy Percy had promised. She got out and walked toward the door, and saw that the man's name tag was from the Four Seasons.

_Nice!_

The hotel staffer led her through empty back hallways to an unmarked door that opened into the hotel's elevator lobby. There, he called an elevator car with no one in it, swiped his key card through the control panel inside, pushed the button for the 52nd floor, and stepped off. "Enjoy your evening ma'am," was all he said.

Janet was mystified. "Is there a restaurant up there?"

But the doors closed before the man could answer. Janet rode alone 52 floors up. When the doors opened, there stood Percy.

"Good evening, Janet."

Janet wasn't sure where she was. _Did he bring me to his hotel room?_

"Hi Edward." She stepped out of the elevator. "I thought you said you'd picked a nice place for us to have dinner."

"I did." He gestured to his right. "This one."

Janet looked over . . . and felt her mouth literally drop open. She was looking into a living room, modernly elegant and beautifully appointed. Evidently this was Percy's suite. But on the far side of the room, on a raised platform surrounded by angled floor-to-ceiling windows, she saw an intimate table for two set with china, crystal and candles. And through the windows, one of the most amazing views of Manhattan she'd ever seen. The table actually sat partially extended into the protruding "V" made by the windows. It would be like having dinner on a cloud.

"Oh my God, Edward!" Percy extended his elbow. She slid her arm through it only semi-consciously.

"I promised you privacy, didn't I?"

"You did, but . . . ."

She'd expected something closer to a speakeasy – a basement hideaway or a private alcove in an intimate restaurant. She _never_ expected this.

They arrived at the table. Percy pulled a chair out for her. She sat and stared out at the city, spreading out below them in all directions. She had a 180-degree view.

"Do you like it?" Percy asked.

"This is . . . this is beautiful," Janet gasped. "Is this your room?"

"Well, only for tonight. Usually when I come to New York, I stay in a condo I own." Percy leaned forward until he caught Janet's eye. "But I wanted only the best for tonight."

Janet tore her eyes away to look around the room. She could see corridors leading off in every direction to other rooms.

"How big is this place?"

Percy smiled modestly. "Actually . . . it's the whole floor."

"The whole floor! Edward, what did you pay for this!?"

"Janet, please." Percy motioned with his hand. "To give you an evening like you deserve, and the privacy I promised . . . it's worth every penny."

Janet found herself struggling to maintain composure. This was incredible! She couldn't believe the view, the place, the luxury, the expense . . . the _thoughtfulness_. She'd never been out with a man of Percy's means, who could pull something like this off. But she couldn't remember any guy she'd ever gone out with managing every detail to such perfection, even with what means he had.

An attendant appeared at her shoulder. "Can I pour you some wine ma'am?"

Janet looked up at him like he was someone out of a dream. "Sure." _He has a waiter in his hotel room?_

"I selected a Chateau-Grillet," Percy interjected. "I hope it's to your liking."

"I'm . . . sure it's fine." Janet did retain enough presence of mind to recall that she'd heard once years ago that Chateau-Grillet was one of the world's finest wines. But when she sipped it, this dream got even more amazing.

"Oh my God. This is the best wine I think I've ever had!"

"Excellent!" Percy sat back, seeming genuinely pleased. "I also took the liberty of ordering an array of my favorites from Benoit – which they don't ordinarily allow you to do here at the hotel, but I managed to persuade them. Let's see." Percy looked over at an enormous roll-in service table covered with burner dishes. "Pied de cochon, short rib parmentier, Comte cheese soufflé, foie gras terrine . . . ." He hesitated.

"Prime beef tartare, sir," the waiter inserted helpfully.

"Ah yes," Percy continued. "And of course filet mignon." Percy looked back at her, enthusiasm unmasked in his eyes. "And I just ordered one of everything from the dessert menu. That way, you can have anything your heart desires."

Janet stared in disbelief. "This . . . is just incredible!" She laughed. "Oh my God, I had no idea! _No_ idea!"

Percy smiled. "I am _truly_ happy to hear you say that." He looked back at the waiter. "Shall we begin then?"

Thus began the most amazing meal Janet could ever remember having.

Percy had an amazing way of putting her at ease. Based on his academic credentials, he was the kind of person she would ordinarily idolize. Based on his honorific titles, he was the kind of person she might expect to read about in magazines or see on TV. But as the meal went on and the wine flowed, their conversation flowed with it, as naturally and easily as if they'd been friends all their lives. He wanted to know everything about her: how she'd decided to follow in her father's footsteps and become a research scientist, how she had decided on Yale, what her mother was like. And though "the incident" with Pym loomed over her life like a storm cloud, Percy managed to stay off the subject, while somehow also drawing out of her what dreams she had before it. Talking with him was like making love using your mind. Everything just gushed out of her – all her hopes, all her fears, all her thoughts on subjects great and small.

And always, the wine flowed on and on.

She asked him about his home in England. His answer bespoke genuine modesty. All she could extract from him was affirmation that, yes, it _was_ a castle. But he also seemed truly determined that this not erect a barrier between them.

He ordered another bottle of the wine (Janet couldn't remember how many that was now), and they talked on. He was everything Janet found lacking in most men: a masterful conversationalist, intelligent, curious, funny and caring. She could tell already she was startling to feel something very . . . _different_ about him.

Dinner was long past and the desert table had been thoroughly pillaged when Percy looked suddenly as if he'd just remembered something he'd been intending to bring up.

"By the way, I've been thinking about what you told me about your research. I don't suppose there's any chance I could get a look at some of the data myself is there? I'd love to see it."

Even through the wine humming in her brain, Janet hesitated. Stark had declared top secret everything that any of them had been working on prior to the Avengers. He'd brought all the data into his private, secure server at the company. She knew he wouldn't want it shared with anyone, even one of her father's former colleagues.

But then she thought: _What right does he have to tell me what I can do with my own research?_

"Tell you what," Janet said. "I'll talk to Tony and Hank. I don't see any reason you shouldn't get a look at it. I'd value your insights."

"Tony and Hank," Percy echoed. "Those are your research partners?"

"Yeah." Janet looked away and laughed a little. "Although sometimes I wish they weren't."

"What do you mean?"

Somewhere in the back of her alcohol-fuzzed mind, Janet knew she shouldn't be sharing any of this. But she'd never talked to anyone like Percy before – he drew her out like Spring draws a flower.

"It's just that . . . ." She propped her chin with one hand and started running her finger around the rim of her wine glass with the other. "They've started this project . . . _team_ would be more like it. They call it _The Avengers_." She made quote marks in the air with her fingers, then laughed. "Like it's some street gang or something. But all we've done since we formed it is work on all these new technologies and weapons and stuff - supposedly so we can go off and get revenge on the people who killed our loved ones."

Janet slumped her head back onto her hand. "But so far, we haven't accomplished anything. And it doesn't look like I'll ever find out who killed my father. And that's all I want . . . I don't care about revenge or weapons or becoming a team. I just want to find out who killed my father, so they can be brought to justice."

Percy listed to all of this attentively. But he looked increasingly grim. He remained silent a long time after Janet finished speaking. Then he began.

"So this 'Tony' . . . he wouldn't be the Tony Stark who is CEO of the company, would he?"

"Yep, that's him."

"And who is Hank?"

"Henry Pym," Janet answered. "You may have heard of him . . . world's most brilliant researcher in subatomic particles."

"No. I'm afraid I haven't." Percy shook his head. "It's a pity."

"What, not knowing Hank?"

"No. It's a pity that a gathering of such intellects should waste their talents on nothing more humanitarian than revenge."

Janet focused more when he said this. She hadn't thought of it like that before.

"I mean, I don't wish to be critical," Percy went on. "Most certainly not of _you_. But think of all the good a group like that could do. For everyone." Percy sounded almost reluctant to say the next part. "Not just themselves."

Janet was reminded of the conversation she, Stark, Pym and Blake had on the ship. She shook her head, as if trying to clear up whether it was a real memory, or whether she'd dreamed it.

"We talked about that," she began, haltingly. _But we somehow got lost along the way. _ "It seemed so important at the time."

Janet got lost in thought. It was several minutes before she realized that Percy was still looking at her, waiting in silence.

She got an idea. "You know what? I should introduce you to them. You'd make a great addition to the team."

Percy looked embarrassed. "Oh, no . . . that's not what I meant."

"No, seriously!" Janet enthused. "Your perpspect . . . your per-SPEK . . ." My word, her lips felt so thick. "Your _point of view_ is exactly what this group needs. And I think you're the only person I've ever met who's the intellectual – (_well _that_ word came out alright)_ - equal of those two. That way there wouldn't be any problem with you seeing my research. You'd be one of us!"

It was such a perfect idea, Janet couldn't wait to share it with Stark and Pym. She took another sip of wine to congratulate herself.

Percy seemed genuinely flattered. "Well, I would be honored to be considered. That's very kind of you, Janet."

"Hmm, maybe," Janet smiled. "Or maybe _self-serving_ of me."

"How is that?"

"Because maybe you could take _my_ place."

Percy frowned. "Well, there'd go the enjoyment of it."

Janet giggled. She brought the wine glass to her lips again, and just as quickly, she thought of something, and felt suddenly sad. She put the glass back down and sighed.

"If Dad was still alive, I know he'd have never let me get mixed up in something like this Avengers group. But he's the reason I got involved in the first place." She shook her head. "I don't know. Sometimes I feel like just a stupid little girl, taking all the wrong steps. "

Percy gazed at Janet compassionately. "Come on." She looked up to see his hand extended across the table to her. "There's something I'd like to show you."

Janet took his hand. He scooped up their wine glasses with his other hand, and led her off the low platform the table was on – she stumbled a little coming down the steps. Then he guided her through the amazing hotel suite. He led her down a corridor that passed a gorgeous library, to a set of glass doors that opened onto a balcony. He opened them, and Janet felt the brusque night air scare against her face. They stepped out into the open. Far below, she could hear the sound of the traffic, and the dull background rumble of the city that never sleeps.

Lights stretched out in all directions as far as she could see. The tiny rectangular windows of the nearby skyscrapers looked like a pointillist painting in black and yellow. The few clouds gliding overhead reflected gray and purple back against the canvas. Janet couldn't remember the city ever looking so beautiful. With her head swimming from the wine, she felt almost like she was floating over New York - like she had her wings back on, and she was very small and free. But then, that seemed like a long time ago to her now. Like another life. Had it really only been that afternoon she had really flown?

"Janet." Percy turned toward her and brought her back to the moment. "If there's one thing I feel sure of, it's that you're _not_ a little girl taking all the wrong steps. Your father would be very proud of you."

Janet felt tears trying to well up in her eyes. She turned to Percy. "All I want is to find out who killed him." Janet turned back and looked out over the city again.

"Tell you what," Percy said. "Since you've been so kind as to look into sharing your research with me. . . and to share this night with me," Percy placed a hand gently on her shoulder, ". . . I will see if there is anything I can do to get any clues as to who killed your father."

Janet looked up, hope rising inside her at the prospect of someone – anyone - willing to help. But just as quickly, hope fading. What chance could Percy have at a problem like that? Consciously or not, she voiced the question.

"How're you going to do that?"

Percy shrugged. "Well, we worked in similar fields, and I stay pretty connected . . . you never know. Perhaps someone was working with him near the end . . . someone who knows something, or someone whose involvement doesn't make sense. We'll see. Mind you, I'm not claiming to offer much hope. But I can ask around." He paused. "And . . . ."

Janet looked at him. "And, what?"

Percy turned and stared out over Manhattan. "Janet, without wishing to say too much . . . let me just say that you don't get to the place I am without gaining at least the knowledge that there are people out there – the kinds of people who really _might_ be able to find something out. Now I'm not making any promises. But there are . . . people I can contact." He grinned a sly little grin and turned back toward her. "I'm not entirely without resources."

Janet smiled.

"And if by bringing those resources to bear on your concern, I could move you even a step or two closer to your answer, it would be well worth it to me." He reached out and gently lifted her face toward his with his hand. "Worth it to me to bring a smile to your face."

Janet felt her heart start to melt at these words. Through the wine, through the tears welling heavier in her eyes, she saw him leaning down to kiss her. And if she had any thought of resisting, she surrendered it willingly. She closed her eyes and felt his lips press against hers, his arms wrap around her. And she gave herself to his embrace and lost herself in his kiss. And all the lights of New York couldn't compare to the lights she felt tingling inside her body.

After what seemed like hours, he pulled away. She felt suddenly cold without his arms around her. She didn't want it to end. But he remained the very portrait of a gentleman.

"Come on," he said. "We've got to get you home."


	10. Busted

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 10: Busted**

**Stark Industries Global Headquarters, Queens, New York**

Janet woke up with a headache and, more alarming, only a hazy memory of getting back to her room. She looked at the clock - _9:32_. _Damn! _ She stumbled into the shower, grabbed a cup of coffee and headed for the lab. No time for breakfast today.

She walked in to find Stark sitting on a counter, his feet in a chair, staring at her, as if he knew she was coming. "Nice of you to show up for work today."

"Yeah, sorry. I overslept." Janet glanced over at Pym. He was sitting at a workstation not far from Stark. But he didn't make eye contact.

"Yeah, well that's what happens when you stumble home drunk at . . . let's see." He picked up a clipboard and looked at it. "I believe the guards logged you in at 1:52 a.m."

Janet winced. She should have known a guy like Stark would be checking up on her. She made a feeble attempt at self-defense. "I wasn't drunk."

"No, of course not." Stark countered, pushing the chair back and standing. He walked toward her. "Most people _don't_ get drunk on Chateau-Grillet. It's pricey that way."

Janet stopped dead. _Did I hear him right? _ She looked up.

"What!?"

"Oh yes, sweetheart. I know all about the dinner and the suite and the 'If it would put a smile on your face, it's worth it.'" Stark swaggered with an artificial-romance voice.

Janet's aching head started seething in rage as her recognition grew. "You son of a bitch! You bugged me!?"

Stark circled her. "You don't think I'm going to let an investment like you go out there and blow it all, do you?"

"That's against the law, you know." She knew it was a ridiculous thing to say as soon as it left her lips. But she was caught completely by surprise. And hung over.

"So is crashing police barricades, honey. So if you don't like it here, you can always leave. Maybe you'd like it better in state prison."

The shock and rage and humiliation was quickly burning off the fog in Janet's brain. "You're such an asshole."

Stark feigned surprise and disappointment. "Really? That's it? I expected something more . . . _poetic_, after all your more eloquence last night." He turned suddenly, anger bursting through his pretense. "But now if you're done with the cheap explicatives, how about you shut up and listen!"

Janet cut a nervous glance at Pym. He was sitting with his fingers templed in front of his face – clearly not working. But he still wouldn't even look at her.

"While you were out partying the night away," Stark continued, "I was doing what you _should_ have done - which is a little background research on your new friend Percy."

"I already did that. He checked out alright."

"Yeah?" Stark resumed circling her. But he was calming again, resuming his arrogant swagger – Janet wasn't sure which she liked _less_ at this moment. "Well I dug a little deeper than you. He said he was in New York for a genetics conference, right?"

"Yes. So?"

Stark stopped in front of her. "Well guess what, angel? There _was_ no genetics conference in New York this week."

Janet felt her face flush. She didn't know whether to be furious, embarrassed, hurt, or all three. And at whom - Stark, Percy or herself. She also didn't know what to say. So she said nothing.

Stark resumed. "Fortunately for you, I don't consider an Oxford genetics professor a terribly great threat to what we're doing here. But I _do_ consider it suspicious that he's sniffing around your father's research and lying about why he's in New York." He stopped in front of her again. "So let's make sure your little indiscretions of the past two nights are the _last_, shall we?"

Janet felt humiliated and defensive at the same time. "You can't treat me like that. I'm not your prisoner."

Stark shouted. "No, you're my employee. Which means I _absolutely_ can treat you like this."

Janet knew she had no defense, and no options. She had nowhere else to go. She stared at the floor. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing." Stark turned and started walking away. "We've got a mission. You need to suit up." He was headed toward the specially designed locker where he kept the Iron Man suit. "And no, he can't have your research, either," he called back. "Nor join the team."

Janet's reeling mind couldn't sort out what information to focus on first. But the word "mission" caught her attention. "Wait a minute . . . what?"

But Stark didn't look back. And Janet didn't have the energy to stop him. She stood rooted to the spot where her dressing-down had started, for the longest time unable to muster the wherewithal even to move. Slowly, she became aware that Pym was still there, seated at his work station, still not moving, still not looking at her.

Finally she staggered to the closet chair and sat down. "What just happened here?" she said aloud.

Pym didn't respond. He didn't move, either, for a long time. With Janet sitting motionless herself, the room became absolutely silent. Finally, Pym took his hands down from before his face, then scooted his chair back. The noise startled in the stillness.

"We're going to Belgrade." He started walking away.

Janet called after him. "When did that get decided?"

Pym stopped and looked back. "While you were out with your new boyfriend."

Janet was recovering enough that she could tackle this problem at least. "Okay, Hank, he's not my boyfriend. He's a guy who did some work with my father, just like you. And—"

"I know who he is, Janet!" Pym shouted. "Or who he claims to be! And you went off and met him based on nothing more than an email! He could have been Jack the Ripper for all you knew! How could you be so stupid?"

"Oh God, Hank, come on! Don't treat me like I'm your teenage daughter, okay? I took a chance and I'll accept my consequences. I'm a big girl, in case you hadn't noticed. But I _won't_ sit here and be lectured by you!"

"Yet you'll lecture _me_ about the relative merits of justice and revenge."

Janet gawked in disbelief. "Going out to meet a stranger who might help me find my father's killer is a _lot_ different than wanting to murder someone!"

"I don't want to murder him! I want revenge on him!"

"And murder is just the byproduct of it?" Janet stood. "You know what? I'm not getting into this again. I've got—" Her head swam. She grabbed the counter to steady herself. "I've got to get some more coffee, and I need some Tylenol . . . and what's this about a mission?"

Pym stared at her grimly, like he was thinking about getting into it again. But after a pause, he answered. "We're going to Belgrade, like I told you. You need to suit up."

"Uh, no. I told Stark I'm not putting on that bodysuit again."

"He made you a new one."

Janet looked up. "He did?"

"It's already on the aircraft."

Janet was surprised. "Aircraft?"

Pym nodded. Then he turned to walk away again.

Janet called after him. "So . . . when are we supposed to leave on this mission?"

Pym kept walking. "Now."


	11. The Executioner

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 11: The Executioner**

**Stark Industries Quinjet 2, over the Atlantic Ocean**

Stark's ultra-advanced aircraft cruised at 67,000 feet, hurtling toward the European continent at more than twice the speed of sound. Its five turbojet engines would have roared like a volcano if you'd been outside the craft. But Stark's soundproofing and pressurization were so perfect the engines were virtually inaudible from inside. If not for the occasional rumble of turbulence, you'd have never known you were even airborne, so smooth and quiet was the ride.

Stark's entire Iron Man suit locker had been loaded on-board, as had the outfits and particle discs for Pym and Janet. Still, it seemed a light load for a team going on what felt like a military mission. No guns, no stockpiles of ammunition, no grenades or other explosives. Stark kept more liquor on board than ammo.

Janet's groggy head quickly cleared, and Stark said nothing more to her about her "indiscretions." Perhaps his legendary compartmentalized mind had already sealed off the incident. Whatever the case, Janet was thankful.

Pym, however, was another matter. He didn't speak to her the whole trip, even though they sat within arm's reach in the cramped passenger compartment of the Quinjet. He stared resolutely into his laptop, and Janet had neither the energy nor desire to try to engage him.

Stark stepped through the cockpit portal and slapped a file folder into each of their laps.

"Hans Grubervelt," he began, settling into a swiveling passenger seat, buckling up and turning to face them. Pym and Janet picked up their folders and opened them. "That's the name of the guy who killed Maria . . . or that's the name he goes by. I'm pretty sure it's fake."

"Why do you say that?" Pym asked.

"Because it's so goofy," Stark answered. "But he doesn't use his assumed names much anyway. He prefers to go by his trade name. Calls himself The Executioner." Stark folded his hands behind his head. "All these guys have got to give themselves scary names. I guess they think it makes them sound tougher."

"We'll see how tough he is when I've got him by the throat," Pym whispered.

Janet scowled at him. Pym scowled back. But he didn't set into her again. He turned to Stark. "How'd you identify him?"

"Thanks to _your_ powers of observation, big boy." Stark slapped Pym on the knee. "You said the man you remembered had a gold tooth with a silver star. So our guys ran some scans on security camera footage and cross referenced it with communications from terrorist and paramilitary groups in Europe. And bingo! Although he wasn't hard to find, to be honest. He seems pretty proud of himself – theatrical name, the blinged-out tooth. We've got video of him bragging about his killings."

"Why do they let a monster like that stay on the streets?" Janet asked.

"Well my dear . . . _'they'_ probably _put_ him on the streets." Stark propped a leg up on a vacant seat. "That is, after all, why he killed Maria. At least that's my guess. Contract killer. Secret police type of stuff. There are governments and quasi-governments and paramilitary groups that'll hire a guy like this as an enforcer." Stark picked up Pym's folder and leafed through it. "With Maria being an old political opposition figure, my guess is when they learned she was back in-country, they sent Mr. Goober-velt here to do the job."

Janet wrapped her arms around herself. "It's appalling."

"Still think bringing him to 'justice' is a good idea?" Pym snarled at Janet.

"Will you _stop_ it?" Janet barked back. "I can't believe you're still talking like that!"

"Actually, Hank does have a point," Stark interjected. "With a guy like this on the payroll, it's not likely the government's going to do anything about it if we bring him in." Stark looked up, like he was thinking. "Which probably wouldn't be a good idea _anyway_, since we'll be flying over their airspace without authorization, landing on their soil without permission, and conducting operations right under their noses without approval."

Stark looked back down. "_But_. . . fortunately, this guy's wanted in about a dozen other countries. So I suggest we swoop in, pick him up, drop him off in France or Germany, and be on our way."

"How are we going to find him?" Pym asked.

"That may take a little time. Sooo . . . on second thought, maybe our 'swoop' will be more like a _hover_." Stark creased his lips. "All we know is that this Grubervelt reports to a General Boca Stoparic, head of the secret police. That's it. 'The Executioner' keeps his whereabouts a pretty tightly guarded secret." Stark yawned. "But I expect we'll be able to flush him out."

"How?" Janet asked.

"Bug Stoparic's office and listen in until we get something we need." Stark pulled a bag of peanuts out of his jacket pocket and tore it open. "Anybody know Serbian?"

"Oh great! Are you serious?" Pym was already getting agitated in his seat. "You're telling me we came all this way for nothing because we can't speak Serbian?"

"Will you relax?" Stark pulled another device out of his other jacket pocket. It looked like a small power adaptor. "I've got a translator. Designed the language recognition logarithm on this one myself." He slipped the device back into his pocket. "So we'll find this General Stoparic's office, get ourselves a hotel nearby, settle in and listen." He looked at Janet, his eyes widening with excitement. "It'll be like a sleepover."

Janet rolled her eyes, but protested no further. She was grateful that Stark appeared to have put her date with Percy out of his mind. She didn't want to rock the boat.

Pym looked around. "And where do we land this thing?"

"I picked out a nice quiet spot for us in the country. This baby's got lockdown optical camouflage – in addition to radar jamming, silent entry and VTOL." Stark patted the inside of the hull like he was admiring a prize horse. "Yeah, you gotta love the Quinjets. And at only a billion a piece, they're virtually disposable."

Stark turned back to Pym and Janet. "Anyway, the point is, nobody will know we're there. We'll walk to the nearest village and catch a train into Belgrade." Stark stood, reached into an overhead storage bin, pulled out two plastic packets and tossed them to Pym and Janet. "Here are your passports, complete with Serbian entry stamp. We're tourists. Nothing more."

Janet glanced up from studying the materials in her lap. Pym was staring straight ahead, nodding his head.

"Then The Executioner gets his due."


	12. Revelations in a Belgrade Hotel Room

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 12: Revelations in a Belgrade Hotel Room**

**Slavija Lux Hotel, Belgrade**

Pym stepped out the front door of the hotel and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. He needed it. An eight-hour shift of listening to Stark's little translator device - transmitting every conversation, every telephone call, every rustle, from General Boca Stoparic's office in the government building a block away – was tiresome.

Yet every time he stepped back out onto the streets of this city, the memories came flooding back. That night. Those sounds. Maria's face. Even in broad daylight, every street scene looked to him like the same one where she was murdered, even though he knew it wasn't true. He also had to remind himself that these people, the ones he passed on the street as he turned and headed down the sidewalk – these people weren't the bad guys. But he searched the faces all the same. Every flash of a smile caught his eye, and he searched for a telltale gold tooth with a silver star.

So far, nothing. Just like the conversations from Stoparic's office. And they'd been at it for three days.

Pym picked up a coffee at a corner vendor, then headed back. Despite his cabin fever, he was looking forward to getting on his laptop and going back to work on some exciting new projects he had going - ones Stark and Janet didn't even know about yet. This idea of using the Particles to manipulate mass without changing size showed real promise. As did another idea . . . one even he would have considered impossible before he started getting exposure to all of Stark's machinery.

Pym re-entered the hotel lobby, his mind lost in his research, and climbed the steps to the second floor room they all three shared. Stark claimed that sharing the same room somehow helped maintain the front that they were tourists. But Pym couldn't see how. More likely it was just because Stark wanted to sleep in the same room as Janet. But with each of them taking turns on eight-hour shift rotations, there wasn't much time for fooling around. Pym wouldn't have tolerated any between Stark and Janet anyway.

He keyed open the door and found Stark sitting on the floor with the translator headphones on. "Anything?"

Stark didn't answer. He was gazing dreamily into the bathroom. As Pym moved deeper into the room, he heard the shower running. Stark noticed him then and straightened up, blinking. But Pym stuck his head around the corner into the bathroom and saw what Stark had been gawking at: Janet in the shower, her naked body only mildly distorted by the shower door glass.

Pym reached and pulled the bathroom door closed, then turned back to Stark, incredulous. "Were you sitting here watching Janet take a shower?"

Stark yanked one earpiece back and grabbed a bag of peanuts from a table top next to his head. "What's that you say?"

"You know what I said."

Stark shrugged and shifted positions on the floor. "Hey, you can't blame a guy for looking."

"Yes, I can," Pym retorted. "I blame _you_."

"Oh, come on. I'm just having a little fun. It's boring, sitting here-"

"That's all it ever is with you, isn't it? Fun."

Stark thought a second. "As a matter of fact, yes. I can truthfully report that I've never _not_ had fun in the presence of a naked woman."

"Does it ever occur to you to treat a lady with a little respect?"

Stark smirked. "Respect . . . is that really what this is about?" He cut a curious look at Pym. "Or is it something else?"

Pym drew a blank. "Like what?"

Stark tossed a peanut into his mouth and chewed while talking, his voice a falsetto tease. "Come on . . . you know what I'm talking about."

"No," Pym answered, befuddled. "I have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

"_You've_ got the hots for her, don't you?"

Pym realized then that he hadn't exactly walked into this situation with a poker face. He hesitated.

"Aaaaaah." Stark got to his feet. "You do!"

"No, I don't!" Pym answered.

"Then why'd you hesitate, huh?"

"'The hots,' Tony – as if _you_ need reminding - are a physiological response involving nothing more than hormones and psychological stimuli." Pym sounded lame, even to himself. But he didn't know where else to try to divert the conversation - and he definitely wanted to divert it. "So no. I don't have 'the hots' for Janet."

"But you'd like to, wouldn't you?"

"How did this become about me when you were the one watching Janet in the shower?"

"Come on." Stark started dancing in place, the translator headset still covering one ear. "You and Janet, stroking with that six-foot—"

"Tony!"

Stark shrugged. "I'm just sayin', high pockets. I think you two would make a lovely couple." He extended the bag of peanuts toward Pym. "But until then, you don't mind if I—"

Just then he froze. He yanked the headset back over both ears. "I think we've got something."

Instantly, Stark was all business. He turned and started writing, still listening to whatever was coming through the headset. Pym stood silent and still.

The bathroom door opened, and Janet stepped out, dressed but with wet hair. Pym turned and put a finger to his lips – as soon as Janet saw what was going on, she froze too.

Stark kept listening and taking notes for several minutes. He put down the pen, listened a few minutes more, then took off the headset.

"Alright. Big party meeting coming up Friday night at a conference center just a couple of blocks from here. The Executioner will be there heading up security." Stark ripped the sheet of paper from the notepad. "We've got him."

Pym felt a rush of adrenaline pump through his muscles. "Only two more days! Then I'll have Maria's killer by the throat." He didn't even realize he'd said it out loud until he heard the sound of it coming from his own mouth.

"No, you'll have him in handcuffs," Janet interjected next to him.

Pym turned to her, the anger that simmered constantly beneath the surface on this subject flaring instantly back to life. "What I'll have him in is not your concern, Janet! He didn't kill your father, he killed my wife! When we find whoever killed you father, _you_ can decide what to do."

Janet confronted him squarely. "Hank, for God's sake, stop it! This is not you talking! You're better than this, and I know it!"

"You can spare me the 'you're better than this' patronizing!"

Suddenly Stark interrupted. "Actually, you can _both_ spare me the shouting, if you don't mind." He looked around at the walls of the room. "We don't want anyone overhearing."

Pym fell reluctantly silent; Janet did too. After a few minutes with both of them quietly fuming, Janet turned to leave. "I'm going for a walk." As she passed Pym, she stopped, leaned close, and spoke in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

"I don't want to have to fight _against_ you over here, Hank. But if you keep it up with this obssession with murdering this man . . . so help me, I will."


	13. Funny Who You Run Into in Serbia

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 13: Funny Who You Run Into in Serbia**

**Slavija Lux Hotel, Belgrade**

Janet steamed out of the room, down the stairs, across the lobby and out the front door of the hotel. There, she stopped and blew out a deep exhale of frustration into the cool evening air. She couldn't believe Pym – _what's happened to him_? Ever since he got into this Avengers project, he was like this vindictive vigilante, thinking he was entitled to carry out his own judgment against the man who killed his wife. And while Janet understood the emotion, she also understood a thing or two about civilization and self-restraint. If there's one thing the world didn't need it's a team of technologically souped-up freelancers running around eliminating anyone who crossed them. They'd be no better than this 'Executioner' they were after.

She started walking. The residents of Belgrade, rushing to catch buses or scurrying home, moved past her in a continuous flow. But she kept ruminating on Pym. She could see in his face that he was taking her disapproval pretty hard. But what else was she supposed to do? She liked Pym – a lot, as a matter of fact. One of the things that attracted her about this Avengers initiative was the chance to spend more time with him. But the man sitting in that hotel room back there wasn't the Pym she thought she knew.

Then a thought struck her: could his psychotic break during his Goliath rampage have caused a change in personality? She made a mental note to get with Stark later and ask him if there was a way they could find out.

She turned and started back for the hotel. As she entered and started across the lobby, a man walked past her going the other way – tall, wearing a cape and bearing a cane. It took a second for Janet to register the familiarity. But before she could even turn to see, she heard him call her name.

"Janet?"

She turned . .. and her mouth dropped open. "Edward?"

Sir Edward Percy stepped back toward her. "Is that really you? What on earth are you doing here?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing."

"My God. It's good to see you!" Percy leaned forward to hug her. But Janet took a step back.

"Hang on a second."

Percy stopped short, his face showing his mystification. "What's wrong?"

Janet folded her arms in front of her. "You lied to me."

Percy extended his hands. "I'm sorry? How?"

"You told me you were in New York for a genetics meeting."

Percy didn't answer, and his face became blank.

"But there _was_ no genetics meeting in New York."

Percy stood his cane in front of him and rested both hands on it. He said nothing for a long time. Finally, he nodded. "Yes." He sighed heavily. "Yes, I did lie to you. And I am sorry for it. But I can explain."

"Yeah? How about you start by explaining why you _were_ in New York then, and why you're trying to get your hands on my dad's research."

Percy looked around. "Perhaps we could go somewhere a little less public? Could I buy you another coffee?"

"No, I think this is fine." Janet kept her arms crossed in front of her.

Percy looked around again like he was nervous, then stepped close. "Alright, if I tell you the truth, will you promise to go somewhere quiet with me so I can explain myself fully?"

"That depends on the truth."

Percy looked around again. Then he leaned very close.

"Janet, I was in New York for a meeting of . . . _anarchists_."

"Anarchists?" Janet wasn't buying it.

"It's a radical leftist ideology, it's-"

"Yes, I know what anarchism is," Janet answered curtly. "I'm just not sure whether this may be the lamest excuse I've ever heard in my life. You're telling me you were in New York for a meeting of anarchists, and you lied to me about it? Why?"

Percy sighed again. "Janet, anarchism is a widely misunderstood ideology, one without much history of popularity in your country."

"But why would I care? I went to Yale."

Percy nodded, but he still looked nervous. "I should have given you more credit than that, a fact I now realize, and I sincerely apologize. But can we please discuss this someplace else!" Percy's voice was a strained whisper. "Serbia is not exactly known as a land of tolerance for leftist ideals, either."

"Then why are you here?"

"I have a castle in Montenegro." Percy stopped and stared at her hard for a moment. "But as for why, specifically, I'm in Belgrade right now? Ironically, I'm here on an errand for _you_."

Janet stared back at him.

"Remember?" Percy smiled and tilted his head at her, as if by doing so he could jog her memory. "I promised I would – 'I know people who know people who might be able to help track down who killed you father,' that sort of thing?"

Janet caught her breath, but tried to hide it. It hadn't even occurred to her that Percy might follow up so quickly or thoroughly. She was flattered and suspicious at the same time.

She looked around. A small coffee shop sat just across the street from the hotel entrance, and it was a well-trafficked street. If Percy had harbored ill designs on her, he'd had plenty of chances to carry them out before now.

"Alright. A coffee. But that's all! No more of that Chateau-Grillet!" She turned and started walking with him back out of the hotel. "I could barely remember getting home."

"So you're an . . . anarchist." Janet gawked across the table at Percy. "And you were so afraid I might disapprove that you lied about it?"

Percy looked away sheepishly. "I'm afraid that's it, yes." He looked back at her. "And _do_ you disapprove?"

"Well no, it's just . . . I guess I never figured a guy who owns a castle – _multiple_ castles, as it turns out – for an anarchist."

Percy nodded. "I understand. But like I said, anarchism isn't what most people think."

Janet leveled her gaze at him. "I remember enough from my poly sci classes to know it's not about individuals amassing castles and renting Rolls Royces. Nor being knighted."

"Quite right." Percy's eyes glistened as he appeared to warm to his subject. "Those are merely tools I use in my quest." Percy extended his hands across the table in enthusiasm. "What I'm really after, Janet, is equality. Equality! For men, women, rich, poor, black, white – no matter what lines of demarcation we place on each other. Anarchism isn't about tearing down governments for the tearing down's sake. It's about freedom - freedom for individuals to collect themselves in the manner of their own choosing. But in any event, as equals. That's what I'm after. That's why I'm interested in evolutionary genetics – bringing the gifts of science to all of humanity, not sold for profit by some greedy corporation or made available only to a chosen few by a hegemonic government. If we could free humanity from the dread of drug-resistant microbes, think what a gift to the world that would be! That's what I'm working toward."

Janet had to admit, there was some sense in what he said.

"At my castle in Montenegro, I'm working on things even more amazing than you already know." He looked around, like he was about to tell Janet the biggest secret since binary code. "Would you believe environmentally sensitive cows?"

Janet nearly choked on her coffee. "You mean that methane business?"

"Cow farts, yes, exactly."

Janet burst out laughing.

"What - isn't a knight allowed to say 'fart'?"

"No, it's just . . . something about it coming from _you_!"

Percy apologized good naturedly. But then proceeded to spend the next half-hour explaining to Janet the genetic alterations he was talking about. And like the first time, he managed to make the subject incredibly erudite, yet amazingly whimsical, all at the same time. By the end, Janet had learned more than she'd ever thought she'd know about cow digestion, yet laughed harder than she had since . . . well, since the _last_ time she was with Percy.

"But Janet," Percy became suddenly serious. "It's research like this that makes me really want to have a look at your father's data. We've reached a point in our experiments where the animals are having reactions to the genetic modifications we're making. If we could give them resistance to those reactions . . . why Janet, I believe we'd be almost there!"

Janet looked across the table at him. She could see in the way his eyes gleamed that he was passionate about his work. She found his idealistic notions about science benefiting everyone refreshing – very different from Stark's self-serving "proprietary ideas." Different even from Pym's perpetual defeatism. Percy had an almost childlike enthusiasm, yet the intellect of a genius . . . and the politics of a revolutionary?

"So I'm just supposed to turn my research over to an anarchist?" Janet arched her eyebrow at him playfully. "I'm not sure father would approve."

Percy smiled. "My dear, I assure you I can be trusted more than any government or corporation you've ever dealt with."

Janet laughed. "Alright. I don't care what Stark says. I'll get you the research. You deserve it for purposes like that."

Percy laughed. "Thank you, Janet. I promise you won't regret it. And just imagine . . . Nobel Prize . . . for ridding the world of cow farts!"

Janet burst out laughing again. This time Percy laughed with her.

"I can't wait to tell Tony he was wrong about you," she said after a moment. "I've missed you." She said it before she realized it.

Percy glanced down at his coffee cup, then back into Janet's eyes. "You know, I haven't stopped thinking about that night."

She smiled, slightly embarrassed. "Me either."

Percy's eyes shone with a new enthusiasm, not one prompted by science or politics. A deeper, more visceral enthusiasm. One that flattered deeply. "It was one of the most magical nights of my life." Percy stirred his coffee. "I wouldn't mind having a few more like that one."

Janet nodded. "I know."

An awkward pause set in. But Percy, eloquent as ever, didn't let it last.

"So . . . you haven't told me why _you're_ in Belgrade."

Janet felt awkward, explaining their expedition of justice . . . or was it revenge? . . . after Percy's enlightened soliloquies. "We're on a . . . _mission_, I guess you'd call it." She went on to explain it to him. "I guess you could say we're still kind of stuck in 'avenge' mode."

Percy nodded. But Janet could see disappointment in his eyes.

"It's really Hank who's driving it," Janet added. "He's become obsessed with getting revenge on the man who killed his wife. He's like . . . murderous. It's not like him. I'm worried he'll try to do something stupid."

"Well, you mustn't be too hard on him," Percy responded. "His wife was murdered, after all. As a man, I think I can understand. That has to do something to you – something very deep and transformative. But . . . ." he sat back and sighed. "Not having experienced anything so awful myself, I'd be reluctant to judge him. It would take an extraordinary man _not_ to want revenge, don't you think?"

Janet was surprised. This wasn't at all the response she'd expected from the enlightened Edward. "Yes, I suppose it would." She thought about it more. "But Edward, I know a thing or two about losing a loved one. And while I can understand the emotion, I refuse to let myself go down that road. I haven't, and I won't. It's what separates us from killers and animals. I will do everything in my power to bring the man who killed my father to _justice_." Janet stabbed at the air with her index finger for emphasis. "But I will never be a party to brute revenge." She sat back. "I'll fight against Hank if I have to, to prevent it."

Percy studied Janet's face with a look somewhere between desire and admiration. "Well . . . I know you'll do the right thing when the moment comes.

Janet sat back. "I hope so."

A brief silence set in between them again. Janet broke it this time.

"So, about your errand here in Belgrade . . . any news?"

Percy shrugged. "Unfortunately, no. Not yet. The only reason I'm here is because I have contacts here. The Serbian government tends to look the other way when it comes to these unsavory types roaming about the country."

"So I've heard," Janet said, thinking back to her conversation with Stark and Pym on the jet.

"Right," Percy nodded. "Anyway, I don't really favor hobnobbing with these sorts. But . . . I suppose one has to go where the people are, right?" He made an artificial toast in the air with his coffee cup, took a sip, and set it down. "Besides, for you, it's worth it."

Janet smiled again and felt her cheeks flush. "I just . . . I can't thank you enough."

Percy suddenly lit up with an idea. "I don't suppose I could talk you into flying away with me to my castle in Montenegro, could I?"

"What?" Janet couldn't believe her ears. "When?"

"Why tonight of course!"

"Tonight!? How on earth would we do that?"

"I have a plane. Well, a heliplane, actually. It's a prototype, but it's a beauty. Faster than a commercial jetliner, and it can land on a spot of lawn no bigger than this room. We could be there in time for a nightcap!"

"Oh my . . . I couldn't."

"Come on. It's beautiful there, looking over the mountains in the moonlight." He reached across the table and took Janet's hand. "I'd love to show it to you."

Janet imagined flying in some small, ultra-fast "heliplane" across the Balkan countryside, Percy next to her, looking out the windows as the quaint villages flew by underneath. She imagined what his castle must be like – it sounded so exotic. Her breath caught at the thought of it.

But she knew she couldn't. Pym would worry and Stark would freak – both justifiably, in this case. She had willingly joined them on the mission. She would see it through.

"I really can't," she pleaded to Percy. He looked downcast. She took his other hand in hers. "I would _love_ to, I really would. But I came to Serbia with Hank and Tony to do a job, and I owe it to them to finish it."

Percy nodded understandingly. "You're right of course. And it's honorable of you to do so." He looked at her with longing eyes. "But I won't deny my disappointment."

Janet noticed that they were still holding hands across the table. "Can I take a rain check on it?"

Percy smiled. "For you, Janet . . . just name the night."


	14. The Cold Before the Storm

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 14: The Cold Before the Storm**

**Slavija Lux Hotel, Belgrade**

Janet walked back into the hotel room intending to tell Pym and Stark everything – how they'd been wrong about Percy, about why he was really in New York, about why she was going to give him her research, and why he should become an Avenger. But she walked in to find Stark packing up.

"Where are _you_ going?"

"I'm checking out." Stark was hunched over his suitcase. "It's game time."

Janet's train of thought immediately derailed. "What about our mission?"

Stark raised up. "That's what I'm talking about. I'm headed back to the jet to get my suit. You guys will leave from here. We'll rendezvous at the conference center day after tomorrow – I can't exactly make a quiet entrance in that thing."

Janet felt a hitch in her stomach. After three days of doing nothing but sitting in a hotel room listening to a little translator device, and coming off another date with Percy, the last thing on her mind had been the immediacy of their operation: battling their way into a room packed with security personnel and capturing a killer.

"So . . . this it. We're really going to do this." It wasn't a question, but it sounded far from certain, even to herself. Stark had bent back over his suitcase, but he raised up again and looked at Janet with a peculiar expression.

"This _is_ why we came over here. What, you getting cold feet?"

"No . . . . it just seems hard to believe that it's really here."

Pym looked up from where he sat in a chair, absorbed in his laptop. Janet winced - she was sure he would have something scolding to say. But he surprised her.

"I know. I've been thinking the same thing." Pym held his hands up in front of his face and studied them, as if unsure they were up to the task. "It's not exactly the kind of thing I've ever done before . . . gearing up to go out and _fight_ people. I'm more accustomed to gearing up for a big presentation." He sighed and dropped his hands. "Let's hope this goes better than _those_ usually did."

Stark zipped up his suitcase. "You just stay focused on The Executioner, high pockets. That ought to get you over the butterflies."

"Don't encourage him," Janet scoffed. But neither Pym nor Stark responded.

"Alright, I'm outta here." Stark slapped Pym on the shoulder. "Break a leg . . . preferably someone else's." He crossed the room, opened the door and started out.

"Wait, what's the plan?" Janet called after him.

"Hank'll fill you in." Stark got a gleam in his eye and glanced at Pym in the chair. "A task I'm sure he'll relish. Remind me to tell you about the conversation we had. He's got the hots for-."

"Bye Tony!" Pym got up and shut the door. Janet eased over and sat on the bed. She was curious.

"What was that last bit he was saying?"

Pym shook his head, sat down and hunched back over his laptop screen. "You know Tony. It's all about the hormones."

"Yes, but . . . hormones for who?"

But Pym was already getting lost in his laptop screen – she wasn't sure he heard her.

She sighed. Same old Pym – all science, all business, no fun. She was pretty sure she knew who he had the hots for, and she was flattered of course. But especially given how he appeared to show it, she wasn't sure it was a good thing. "So different from Percy," she thought. Percy had no trouble going after what he wanted; it danced in his eyes and sent a chill down her spine. She thought back on his invitation - fly to his castle in Montenegro – and wondered if she'd made the right decision.

She got up from the bed and looked out the window. "So . . . tell me about the operation."

Pym looked up again and hesitated, as if weighing her request against whatever was on the laptop screen. But at last he sighed, set the laptop aside, and began - and for the next half hour, managed to make what should have come off like a scene from an Indiana Jones movie sound like the driest bore-fest Janet could remember since her college art theory class. "Another contrast to Percy," she thought. Percy could make even the most tedious topic interesting with his brilliant wit and disarming charm.

Pym told her that he and Stark had managed to secure the schematics of the conference center hosting the political rally they were going to hit. He talked on and on about power systems and load-bearing walls and construction materials and sight lines. Janet tried to suppress a yawn, but she felt it make its slow-motion escape anyway. Pym stopped.

"Janet, this is important. Are you paying attention?"

She shook off both the yawn and the thought of telling Pym just how boring he really was. "Yes, sorry. Please go on."

Mercifully, he was just getting to the good part. The goal being to capture The Executioner without killing a bunch of bystanders, the plan called for staging a ruse assassination attempt on the featured speaker. This would clear the hall of civilians, but not security personnel. The three of them would then take out the goons, capture The Executioner, and make their getaway before the police could respond. Stark had the Quinjet programmed to autopilot its way to their location at the touch of a button.

"You and I will put on our outfits here, then put street clothes over them and walk over to the conference center. Once 'Iron Man' gets there, things will start popping. We'll need to be ready."

Janet still couldn't believe she was even having this conversation. _I'm in Belgrade, about to launch an attack on a political rally and capture an assassin_. Yes, she was sure now her father wouldn't have approved.

"So once I shrink, I'm still stuck down there til we get back to the jet?"

Pym looked at her, and his face softened. He rummaged around, found his particle belt, and held it up. It had four extra discs mounted on either side.

"I decided I could bring along a couple of spares, to help you shrink and regrow."

Janet's flattery flared again. _S_he was touched by Hank's quiet display of concern. She got up, walked over, and looked at the belt. Then she looked up at him. "Thank you, Hank."

Pym looked embarrassed. He tossed the belt back onto the bed like it was nothing. But Janet suddenly felt strangely comforted, standing so close to him. "You know, I guess if I was honest, I'd have to admit I'm a little scared right now."

Pym nodded. "I know. Me too."

Janet felt drawn again by Hank's honesty. This was the Hank she liked – honest, vulnerable. She decided to risk broaching once more the touchiest sore spot between them.

"Hank, be honest with me."

He looked at her.

"You don't really intend to kill this Grubervelt guy, do you?"

_Poof!_ The warmth of Pym's vulnerability hardened into a wall of ice. "Will you leave me alone about that Janet? Please?" He turned his back on her.

"Hank, it's wrong!"

"Him murdering my wife was wrong, dammit! It's what he deserves!"

"That's not for you to decide!"

"Don't lecture me about this again, Janet! You don't understand!"

"How can you say that? All I've wanted for the last three months is to find my father's killer. I think that qualifies as 'understanding.'"

Pym turned toward her suddenly. "So you be honest with _me_!"

Janet blinked. "Alright."

"What would _you_ do? If you found the man who killed your father, and there was no doubt – you knew this was the guy. And you had it in your power to carry out his sentence right there on the spot, avoid the corrupt courts, the cross-border paperwork, to do what those systems should do anyway if they worked right. But they don't, and you know it. You know he stands as good a chance as any of getting away scot free if he goes to court. What would you do?"

"I'd turn him over to the authorities, Hank, I already said—"

Pym cut her off. "I said be _honest_, Janet. Not give me your Yale answer." He walked over and took her by the arm. "Come on. The man who took away the one person you cared about more than anyone in the world. You either do something, or he gets away. What would you do?"

Janet shook her head. "Those are false options."

"But what if they're not?"

"They _are_, Hank! It's not as black and white as that. It's _never_ as black and white as that."

Pym glared at her in disbelief. "The man who killed your father . . . you'd just let him go?"

"No, I wouldn't just let him go. Turning him over to the authorities is not the same thing as letting him go."

Pym turned his back on her again. He stared at the wall a long time before speaking again.

"Janet, I just need you to try to understand how I see this. I'm not some brute who's bent on revenge for the visceral satisfaction I think it'll give me. But I know how things work in this world." He turned toward her again. "Justice is just an idealistic notion we Americans carry around from our old western movies. For the right price, or for a guy with the right skills – like this Executioner . . . they never face justice. There's always a higher bidder, a higher power, out there willing to protect them. If we capture this guy and take him to face somebody's idea of justice, he'll just get away. Or get broken out of prison."

Pym walked over and looked her in the eye, deeply and passionately.

"Sometimes, Janet, you've got to take the chance you've got. Sometimes you've got to _be_ justice, or justice never gets served at all."

Janet pulled out of Pym's grasp. If nothing else, she finally saw in his eyes the look of a man who knows what he wants. But she found it deplorable. She shook her head. "I was _giving_ you my honest answer, Hank. Those are false options. It doesn't happen like that . . . it's never that simple."

She wrapped her arms around herself, realizing with dismay that the next day and a half with Pym figured to be as cold as her evenings with Percy were warm. She sighed.

"Life is never that simple."


	15. Game Time

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 15: Game Time**

**Belgrade**

Pym trudged sullenly next to Janet along the street to the conference center, slashes of afternoon sun gashing his vision at every cross street. He squinted against the rays and plodded on. He was still trying to get used to the clomp of his boots – the only visible part of his uniform – sticky because of their expandable design. But their dull thuds against the concrete matched his mood. Underneath his street clothes, the rest of the uniform's fabric tugged, thick and clingy, against his skin. He shrugged a shoulder against the tension - it felt like wearing a straight jacket. Over one shoulder he carried a couple of hand-lettered political signs, written in Serbian – the crown jewels of their charade. But he was glad for them: they drew attention away from the bag slung close against his chest, in which he carried the helmet for his uniform.

As he walked, his thoughts oscillated between regret over his latest argument with Janet, disbelief that he was really about to take part in a mission like this, and ravenous fury for the chance to get his hands on The Executioner. He tried to focus on the latter, like Stark suggested. It helped his nerves.

Janet said nothing. Partly this was nerves for her, too, he figured. But it was also more than that, and he knew it. An invisible wall was rising between them, a new row of its unseen bricks mortared into permanence every time they talked. He couldn't understand Janet's single-minded needling over the subject of revenge. And Janet couldn't understand his heart's demand that his wife's killer pay for his crime.

Maybe no woman could understand that - the gnawing rage in the pit of a man's stomach when the woman he loves has been hurt . . . or murdered. Yet Pym _wanted_ Janetto understand. In fact, he was surprised how much he wanted it. He realized that's all he'd been thinking about for the last two blocks. All of a sudden it seemed so absurdly, vitally important that she understand why he had to crush The Executioner, and that she see that he wasn't base or brutish. But why? But why, on the verge of the moment when he was at last about to get his revenge for the death of his wife. . . why was _Janet_ so much on his mind?

He shook his head and wrenched his thoughts back onto the mission. _I've got to stay focused on The Executioner._ In the next instant, they reached the last cross street and saw the conference center sprawling across the next block.

"There it is." Janet shielded her eyes against the sun.

Pym looked at the building. A crowd of sign-carrying political activists was milling about, and a ring of stern-eyed security personnel circled the complex, facing outward, watching for any sign of trouble – already one of them was eying the two of them on their street corner.

"I guess it's time to act political." Pym handed her a sign. She took it without looking at him. He sighed. "Here we go."

Holding the signs upright, Pym and Janet walked across the street and merged into the growing throng. Pym didn't know what their signs said – Stark had lettered them based on something he got off the internet – but whatever it was, it must have been good. Periodically others in the crowd would look up, read the signs, then flash a smile or a thumbs up sign. The two got no trouble as they wandered through the open spaces outside the conference center.

Dignitaries whom Pym didn't know arrived - or at least he assumed that's what they were from the stretch limos they arrived in. But he didn't care about the dignitaries. He kept scanning the crowd for one face, with its telltale gold starred tooth.

"When do we go in?" Janet whispered. It wouldn't do for them to be overheard speaking English to each other.

Pym looked around. "I guess just wait until everybody else does."

He heard a gruff voice barking orders off his right shoulder. Instantly his mind was transported back to that night, the dark alley, the treacherous voice barking faux greetings to Maria, tapping a club menacingly into his palm. And Pym knew immediately whose voice this was. He turned . . . and there he was, not twenty feet away, stalking down the line of security guards.

He was shorter than Pym, but thick as a bull, broad-shouldered, rippled with muscles. His head was shaved save for two strips running from front to back, and he wore a thin goatee that curled around his mouth like a snake. He eschewed the black "special-ops"-style uniform of the other security personnel, opting instead for a simple blue t-shirt stretched thin against his mountainous muscles, overlayed with an odd brown vest that Pym guessed was probably bulletproof. The insignia of a two-headed axe blazed in red across the front.

"Not exactly hard to find," wasn't that what Stark said? Good God, this man was practically a walking billboard for murder. Pym felt his body quivering as his anger rose. _This is the man who killed my wife! And the son of a bitch is probably _proud_ of it!_

He nudged Janet . . . harder than he meant to with adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream. "There he is."

"Yes, I see him Hank." Janet put a hand on his arm. "You need to stay calm. You nearly knocked me over."

Pym jerked his arm away. "Don't start with me now. I've got him, and I'm not letting him get away." Pym's hand seemed to move almost involuntarily toward the disc belt hidden beneath his clothes.

"Hank!" Janet's mouth was suddenly at his ear, seething in a strained whisper. "Of course you're not going to let him go. But you can't go after him this minute! You'll jeopardize the mission!"

Pym never took his eyes off The Executioner. "The mission is to make him pay. Which I can do right now." Pym started toward him.

"No, Hank!" Janet yelled - instantly drawing looks from everyone around them. Pym felt the weight of all those eyes on him, and hesitated. The Executioner started moving away.

"Hank, don't do this," Janet was whispering again. "Let's stick together, do it as a team, like we said we would."

Janet's voice felt soothing in his mind, like she reached in and grabbed his last shred of rational thought before it slipped away. He hesitated a moment more, and The Executioner moved out of sight through the crowd. Pym kept his eyes fixed on him as long as he could. But at last, he felt his breathing begin to calm, and he became aware that Janet was still whispering in his ear, soothing him, begging him not to go after The Executioner now, alone.

Finally he turned to her. "Alright." It felt odd for some reason, looking at her. Like he hadn't seen her in a long time. "Alright. We'll stick with the plan."

He took a deep breath and looked around. The crowd seemed to be flowing toward the entrances.

"Come on." He led Janet toward the doors.

The crowd packed tighter as it squeezed through the doorway, and Pym found himself cheek to cheek with scores of Serbian-speaking sign-bearers, shouting and getting rowdier now that the rally was about to begin. Then in another moment, they popped inside and the crowd spread out. Pym turned to Janet.

"This way."

Most of the crowd turned left through the doors. But Pym, still carrying his sign but trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, led them to the right along the wide passageway that ran around the perimeter of the building. Security guards monitored the corridor every few dozen meters. But Pym made sure he did nothing to attract their attention.

Calling to memory the schematics he'd seen of the building, he began a twisting course, turning first down this corridor, then that, at every turn the crowds growing thinner. Steadily, trying hard to look like he knew what he was doing, he weaved them deeper into the interior of the building. Still, no one challenged them. Finally he stopped in front a door bearing a sign in Serbian that he couldn't read, but also the telltale universal symbol he was looking for: a black, lightning-bolt type arrow on a yellow triangle. Electricity.

Pym pulled from his jacket pocket a handheld repulsor unit that Stark had given him, low powered and quiet, but perfect for this job. He pointed it at the door lock and pulled the trigger. A brief, muffled punch of energy blasted the lock apart. He and Janet quietly slipped inside and closed the door behind them.

They had stepped into a large concrete room filled with electrical equipment and conduits. Halfway down the left wall, a large control panel protruded from the wall. Pym turned to Janet.

"Okay, now you go to work."

Janet pulled what looked like might be a case of breath mints out of her pocket, walked over and stuck it onto the control panel. "Well, that was easy."

Pym was shedding his street clothes. "Yeah, well, the hard part comes later. You're sure you can push the button on that thing when you're small?"

"Don't worry about me, Hank. I'll be fine."

Pym looked at her. He was standing now in the middle of the floor in his blue stretchable uniform with yellow suspenders and belt. He suddenly felt very foolish.

"Why did Stark have to make this stuff yellow?"

"So we don't lose you in the crowd," Janet cracked.

"At sixteen feet tall?"

Janet smirked. "Come over here and zap me. I'm tired of _talking_ about this mission. I want to get it over with."

Pym walked over and detached two particle discs from his belt. Janet shed her street clothes, and Pym got a look at her for the first time in her new black Wasp outfit, stretched to its tightest since she was at normal size. Even in the danger of the moment, Pym couldn't help but notice . . . she looked _amazing_.

"Alright here goes. You be careful, okay?"

Janet nodded. He held the discs on either side of her waist and pushed a button on each. For a second nothing happened. Then suddenly Janet shrank right before his eyes – impossibly fast – and was gone.

Pym quickly pulled his helmet from the bag and put it on so he could use its built-in communication device. It wobbled, too large for his head at this size. "Janet, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Janet?"

"I'm here," he heard Janet's voice come back in his ear. "Sorry. Just the wooziness from shrinking."

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He heard some rustling, and what sounded like Janet taking deep breaths. "Yeah, I'm good. It's passing. I'm going to test the wings now."

Pym stepped back. In the next instant, he heard the tiniest of swooshing sounds, like somebody was launching a microscopic model rocket, and he saw a miniscule spark soar up from the floor.

"Wow," he said into his communicator. "It's hard to believe that's you."

"It's me. The wings are working fine. And now that I'm practically invisible, you can leave me here. I know what to do."

Pym felt uncertain. Yes, she was virtually invisible. But she was also so vulnerable.

"You sure about this?"

"Hank, go!"

He turned to leave. He felt awkward, like he ought to give her a hug or something. But you can't hug a girl a quarter-inch. "Alright . . . wait for my signal. Once you press that button, you've only got fifteen seconds, so you've got to get out of here."

"Yes, dear."

He saw the spark of Janet arc over and light on the control panel. "Okay. Bye." He pulled his jacket back over his uniform, pulled his helmet off again, opened the door and slipped back into the hallway. He _really_ didn't want to run into anyone now, but he hoped that with his low-hanging jacket on, he could at least keep some of his outfit covered. He moved off to take up his position, in a service corridor right behind where the podium would be situated in the main hall. As he got close, he could hear that the rally had begun – the silence in the corridors would periodically be punctuated by a roar from the crowd. Now that he was alone, the butterflies in his stomach multiplied.

"Alright, Pym, settle down," he whispered to himself. "Tony and Janet will do their parts. This will work." He squeezed up close to a concrete pillar, where he'd be hard to spot, and waited.

He could hear the speaker's voice, amplified, reverberating through the wall opposite him. The orator was really working the crowd, from the sound of it. His voice distorted as he yelled into the microphone. And the thunderous acclaim of the audience rose with him.

In fact, Pym thought, that had to be the loudest crowd he'd ever heard. There couldn't be more than a few thousand people in there, yet they sounded positively like a jet engine. It was only at a brief lull in the shouting that he realized . . . _that's not the crowd! _ That _is_ a jet engine! Or, rather—"

He crammed his helmet back onto his head. "Janet!" he called frantically into his mouthpiece. "Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear."

"Push the button! He's here!"

Pym held his breath and started counting the seconds. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, in his ears, in his throat. _Oh God, this is it!_ The whining jet sound grew louder. Pym knew they had to be hearing it in the rally room. Closer and louder it came – like someone had crammed a half-dozen commercial aircraft engines into a single piece of lead pipe - a scream so eerie it sounded like it came from another world.

Then everything happened at once. Pym heard a faint, muffled boom from deeper in the building. Then he felt, more than he saw, the power go out – the ever-present background hum of flowing electricity got suddenly sucked out of the building. Then the ceiling high over his head exploded, debris of sheet metal and gravel raining down all around him. And Iron Man descended in a blazing aurora of fire.

A split second later, the scream stopped abruptly as Iron Man cut power and dropped to the concrete floor with a metallic _WHOMP!_

Iron Man looked at Pym. "D'you miss me?"

Pym only pointed to the opposite wall. Iron Man brought his armored hand up, the lead pipe scream rose again, and an enormous blast of energy fired from his hand, exploding into the wall. Pym ducked and shielded his eyes.

When he looked up again, an eight-foot hole gaped where the wall had been. As the smoke cleared, the scene of pandemonium within the convention hall emerged before his eyes.

In the stark, dim emergency lighting, he could see hordes of people swarming like insects toward the back exits. On the front row where the audience had been, a table skirt was on fire, started by the repulsors blast, and already spreading. On the stage, closer to the blast hole, speakers and dignitaries scrambled to get back to their feet. And over the whole scene of black and white terror, a haze of smoke hung low. For the clamoring mass of activists, their political rally had turned into a garish scene from hell.

"Show time, big boy," he heard Stark's metallic voice in his ear piece. Then Iron Man strode fearlessly through the hole, arms raised, repulsors revving up again. The crack of a gunshot, then a second, rang out, only to be silenced by two repulsor blasts. Iron man disappeared into the hole, lost temporarily to view in the smoke and darkness.

Pym threw off his jacket, reached to his belt, and took a deep breath. _Here goes!_

He pressed the button. His head swam briefly as the world seemed to shrink around him. Then his head cleared, and he looked down at a floor now sixteen feet below his eyes. A feeling of immense power rushed through him, shooting fire through his veins and electricity through his muscles. He suddenly felt invincible, unstoppable. He pulled his helmet over his head and let out a battle roar. Then Goliath bent down, stepped through the hole into the assembly room onto the stage, and rose to his full, towering stature over the runts scattering before him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a security guard raise his pistol and aim. With barely an effort, Pym swatted the man with the back of his left hand. Both man and pistol went flying. Pym reveled in his might and stomped down from the stage.

On his right, he could make out through the smoke and dark the repeated flashes of Iron Man's repulsor blasts. Every second, another flash flared, another jet pulse filled the air, and another scream gurgled from the throat of a security guard thrown a dozen feet in the air, an agony of searing heat in his chest making him feel like he was dying. He wasn't, Pym knew. But the guard wouldn't know that.

Two more guards appeared from the dark smoke in front of Pym, firearms raised. Pym launched both fists forward while dropping forward into a kneeling position. It was like sending two battering rams into the men's chests. He heard the air empty from their lungs in a hollow "ugh." Both flew out of sight back into the shrouded blackness.

More now. A whole line of them on his left flank. Pym dove into them like a lion mowing down gazelle. One man managed to fire off a shot. Pym felt it ricochet off his chest guard. He counted it a valuable reminder: _I'm not bulletproof._

In the pale half-light, Pym could see that even some of the security guards now were running for the exits, caught completely unprepared for this kind of onslaught. But just as many were running in from outside to meet the new threat. He felt something whiz by his ear, then another bounce on his chest protector – then heard the rat-a-tat of gunfire, multiple shots, coming from everywhere. Some of the guards must have panicked. They were firing wild.

Pym dropped low to make himself less of a target. The brilliance of their plan struck home to him then like it hadn't before – even at his great size, he could hide in the dim smoke that filled the room from the blast, and surprise people, looming up at them out of the darkness and haze.

A cadre of guards ran toward him. He swept a massive leg out toward them, cutting them down like wheat. At his size, his leg alone weighed hundreds of pounds. To the unfortunate guards in its path, it'd be like getting hit by a raging bull. Fumbling around in the darkness, he found two fallen guards, one with each hand, then lifted them. As the next two groups of men approached, he tossed the guards into them. He heard the screams, the sick crack of bone on bone, and saw the attackers melt back into the gloom.

Just then, he heard a crackle of Janet's voice in his earpiece. "Hank, Tony, I've got the target!"

Janet was the team's eyes in the smoke-filled battle zone. After detonating the electrical grid, she was to fly in here. She'd no doubt been swooping high and low through the room this whole time, searching for The Executioner.

"Center of the room," her crackling voice returned. "He's rallying a whole bunch of guys to come at you. Be careful!"

Pym crouched low again to keep from making himself an easy target for the assembled guards. Suddenly, Janet's voice crackled to life again in his ear.

"Tony, look out! He's sending the whole mob to _you_!"

Suddenly, a roar of gunfire filled the cavernous room like nothing Pym had ever heard before. A volcanic eruption of ripping lead, like a scene from a World War I battlefield. Pym saw flashes of repulsor light from the darkness on the far side, and heard grunts coming over the earpiece from Stark. _My God, there must be fifty men firing at him at once!_

Pym rose to go to his aid, when he heard Janet's voice crackle through once more. "Hank, The Executioner!"

In an instant, Pym's mind pivoted back to the mission. "Where is he?" he replied to Janet. "I won't let him get away."

"He's not trying to get away!" Janet called back frantically. "He's coming right for you!"


	16. Goliath's Rage

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 16: Goliath's Rage**

**Belgrade**

Pym saw The Executioner emerge through the smoke with a grisly smile shining out from his serpentine goatee. The man didn't run toward Pym - he strode resolutely, his vast shoulders swaying with his heavy footfalls. Neither did he slow, as if to size up Pym before engaging him. He was like a machine, marching dispassionately into battle. But the smile told Pym he was confident.

"I'll take some of that confidence out of him," Pym muttered under his breath. He reared back to throw a roundhouse punch. But in the next instant, The Executioner lunged, with a speed that caught Pym completely by surprise. He threw himself at Pym's chest and knocked him off his feet. Pym fell backward, The Executioner landing on him like a bowling ball. His smile never faded.

Pym was stunned. _How could this runt knock me down?_ Pym found himself trying to do quick calculations at what kind of mass The Executioner would have to be carrying on that fireplug frame to knock over a man three times his size.

The Executioner muttered something in Serbian, looking down at Pym from atop his chest, still smiling. But by this time, Pym had regained his bearings. He pulled his legs up and locked them around The Executioner's torso, then slung him off like a bronco throwing a rider.

"I don't care how heavy you are, I'm going to crush you!" Pym threw a punch while The Executioner was still getting to his feet. He caught him flush on the chin. Pym felt a flash of pain shoot up his arm at the blow. Yet The Executioner didn't even go down. He reeled backward, but stayed on his feet.

_Dear God! What kind of monster is this?_

The Executioner came roaring back, lunging at Pym, trying to get inside Pym's much longer reach. But Pym was ready this time. He ducked sideways. With The Executioner off his feet, Pym grabbed him and used his own momentum to throw him across the room. The man landed against the far wall with a crash like a train wreck.

"It's a lot tougher than beating up helpless women, isn't it?!" Pym roared.

But as Pym started to saunter over and finish off The Executioner, suddenly there he was again, lunging out of the darkness. He threw a muscled arm around Pym's neck and locked a deadly elbow hold around it. Pym couldn't believe the man's strength! His throat felt like it was caught in an industrial vise. His windpipe clamped shut. He gasped for breath.

_Have to think! _

Pym realized that he was still standing near the front of the room. The edge of the stage was not far behind him. He took a few steps backward, sized up his move out of the corner of his eye, then let himself fall backward with as much weight in his torso as possible. This sent The Executioner crashing into the corner of the stage with Pym on top of him. Pym heard the stage supports crack under the weight, and the structure collapsed around them. At last, he heard a cry of pain from The Executioner.

He got to his feet and turned. The Executioner lay dazed in a crater of broken support beams. _Got him!_ Pym reached down to yank The Executioner into position to land another blow. But as he lowered his giant hand, The Executioner suddenly swiped at it with the jagged end of one of the broken stage supports. Blinding pain lanced up Pym's arm as a large gash opened on his hand. He pulled his hand close and saw blood run down to his elbow.

In the same instant, The Executioner leapt up at him again - this time with both fists held straight out in front of him. He landed a two-fisted jab straight into Pym's nose. Pym felt blinding sheets of pain sear around both cheekbones and meet at the back of his skull. A taste like scalded rubber ripped across the roof of his mouth. His vision blacked, and for a moment he couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think. It was only when he felt his knee crash into the floor that he knew he had crumpled under the blow.

_I'm in trouble._

The next blow came like a thunderstrike against the side of his head. His helmet absorbed most of the impact, but it still rung his skull like a bell. But Pym was still glad for the head protection – armored to perfection like everything else Stark built. The Executioner let out another cry of pain and pulled his hand back.

_He won't try _that_ punch again._

Pym realized he was vulnerable, down on his knees, where he couldn't take advantage of his enormous reach advantage. He tried to scramble to his feet. But no sooner had he started to move than The Executioner was lunging at him again, locking another arm around his throat. The man seemed to shrug off pain like dust. Like his muscles doubled as armor.

Pym felt his rage rising. But with it, fear. On his knees, he couldn't perform another maneuver like the last one. And this man's death grip on his windpipe was unbearable. He couldn't believe anyone could be so strong! Pym gasped for air again and tried to get to his feet. But his head was already woozy from The Executioner's blows. His legs felt weak. He couldn't get up. The Executioner's grip on his throat tightened.

Time seemed to slow for Pym then. He felt all the anger, all the hatred for this man searing his senses. Yet he could also tell that The Executioner was beating him. Disbelief mingled with hate. And hate trickled out toward The Executioner . . . then meandered its way back to Pym himself.

He was failing again.

He couldn't understand it. All this time, he'd dreamed about, craved the moment when he'd have Maria's murderer in his grip. And now here he was, down on his knees, gasping for air at mercy of The Executioner's – a man one-third his size. His mind reeled at the impossibility of it, the absurdity of it.

Or was it lack of oxygen to his brain that made his mind reel?

He heard a voice inside his head, like the voice of some long-dead relative._ Failing. You're failing. _

He shook and tried to flex his muscles. Tried desperately, anything to get out of The Executioner's grasp. He heard his throat gurgle inside his neck. His diaphragm contracted, instinctively trying to draw air into his lungs. None came. They felt like they sucked in on themselves, like they filled with fire, then imploded.

_You're failing again. That's all you've _ever_ been, a failure._

Who was saying that? For God's sake, who said that? Pym looked around. Or did he? He felt his eyeballs rolling in their sockets, but was he looking around, or was he losing consciousness? His lungs pulled with all their might against a void. No air came. _I'm dying! _ Dear God, it was true. He was dying.

_You'll die a failure, Henry Pym. They'll say it at your funeral. They'll pity the bastard who couldn't save his wife, then got himself killed trying to avenge her. _

Pym tried to shake his head again. Nothing happened. His head, arms, legs – nothing obeyed. Only his diaphragm, heaving and retching, like it was ripping in two and bursting out of his chest. Dear God, for air! Just one merciful breath of air!

Somehow he registered that he wasn't even struggling against The Executioner's choke anymore. He was starting to float. _This is the end, isn't it? This is how I die._

Then something in Pym's mind snapped. He heard the click, perfectly distinct, inside his head. Like a tumbler in a lock, turning over, just so. An almost peaceful release. The combination engages and the bolt clicks, and you can watch with a strange, deadened sort of resignation as the beast at last comes out of the closet. It flexes its claws and stretches. Then it turns. And sees them. Sees them all - the liars and the doubters and the hypocrites. It pads silently down the hall into the dining room, raises a claw almost distractedly, and shreds a guest into filets before he can even turn. The sound of it is horrible, a sickening slice of clothing and flesh, a gurgling in the throat. Blood gouts onto the chandelier, onto the table. Then come the screams, wild and guttural, like mothers having their children ripped from their arms. But Pym can't scream. He can only watch. People race for the doorway, but to no avail. The monster is upon them, ripping flesh with razor talons. Bodies flay open, revealing hearts, intestines . . . lungs!

Dear God, for their lungs. Just please, God, let me have one breath of air in this torment! One blessed, sweet breath of air in this hell!

_You're a god-damned failure, Pym! That's all you ever were!_

His diaphragm convulsed once more, dry-heaving against the end. But his mind was calm. All he wanted to know now was who kept saying that.

_You're nothing _but_ a failure! And failure will be your last act on earth._

But he knew. He just didn't want to admit it to himself, did he? Didn't want to say it. But he felt his lungs reaching for it anyway, spasming for it.

And then it came. High and screaming, familiar, like a hawk from the end of the world, screeching down on its prey. Like a jet engine, crammed into a piece of lead pipe. It crashed with an explosion, behind him.

Then the grip released . . . and air flowed in.

_AIR!_

He sucked at it with a desperation he'd never known. His windpipe was so crushed it hurt to draw breath, but his whole body heaved into the effort anyway. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but all his body would do is suck air, again and again. All of life disintegrated into smoke and purple dots dancing in his vision, but he sucked and heaved and breathed, bent over, begging the air for life.

His head began to clear. He saw Iron Man out of the corner of his eye, armored hand still raised from the repulsor blast that knocked The Executioner out. He was trying to come to Pym's rescue. But with every step he took, ten more security guards attacked him. Clubs, point-blank pistol shots, pepper spray – they were trying everything. None of it worked. But all of it bogged him down.

Feeling returned to Pym's lips, and he became aware that he was staring at the floor, drooling. And again his mind drifted, this time carried back in time. Back to a drunken moment, returning home alone from Serbia, without a wife, without even her body. Dropping to his knees in the foyer of his home and vomiting. And then, as now, he stared down a column of saliva . . .

_. . . and loathed himself!_

He turned. The Executioner lay next to him, barely conscious. Iron Man's repulsor blast had laid him out like a fish on a riverbank. The loathing inside Pym washed back and forth between himself and The Executioner. And Pym wanted nothing more in that moment than to die . . .

. . . and to _kill_.

He staggered back to his feet as feeling spread through his body and into his limbs. A stray guard, running past, cried out in terror at seeing Goliath rise over him. He pointed his gun at Pym's chest. Pym instinctively kicked at the gun, but the force carried through to the man. He felt the hapless guard's bones give way under the impact, heard the gut-wrenching crunch of his spine snap. The man made a weird, girlish squeak as his broken body flew into the air. Then he was gone, disappearing into darkness.

Pym reached down and grabbed The Executioner. A scream rose from his own throat – not the muscular war cry that had burst forth earlier. But a scream. High pitched and lethal as a banshee. He held The Executioner up before his face – sixteen feet in the air – then, with a final scream of rage, he pounded him down against the concrete floor with all his might. The man's bulging body of muscle shuddered with the force of the blow. But it did not break.

Pym raised The Executioner's body even higher this time, raising him over his head. Then he slammed him down again into the floor. Again, no visible evidence of breaking.

Pym screamed again, brought The Executioner's body over his head a third time – then suddenly, a repulsor blast flashed before Pym's face. He heard Stark's voice in his earpiece. "Hank! We said we weren't going to kill him!"

Pym ripped his ear piece off and threw it away. He lifted The Executioner's body over his head once more. Incredibly, he saw that the man was coming around. How was this possible?

Another blast flashed before his eyes. But then Iron Man was buried under a human tidal wave of security guards. Pym was still holding The Executioner aloft in front of him when, amazingly, he heard him speak. The voice was low and menacing.

"I remember you."

Pym hesitated. He stared into the man's face, incredulous.

"I kill your wife."

A sheet of white hot fury blinded Pym's mind. His body moved into action on its own. He grabbed The Execution by both arms and began to pull. He felt the sinews inside the man's massive arms quiver under the strain. But the man only laughed, his face inches from Pym's.

"You got bigger since then."

Pym pulled harder. He thought he felt something tear, only slightly. But it was working. The Executioner winced. But he quickly fought back the pain that Pym knew had to be coursing through his body. He looked back into Pym's eyes.

"But inside, you still same little man you were."

Pym redoubled his effort again, straining with all his might. "I'll pull your arms off!"

The Executioner spat in his face. "You can't pull your dick out your pants. I know." His sinister smile returned. "Your wife tell me before she die."

Blank wall of rage. Overwhelming everything. Pym screamed with a fury he'd never felt. He heaved as hard as he could on The Executioner arms. Yet incredibly, he felt the man actually starting to resist. He was recovering again! Pym could feel him pulling against him.

The Executioner spat in Pym's face again, the spit this time mixed with blood. "You little man!"

"I'll kill you!" Pym screamed.

"No," The Executioner strained. "You fail! And I kill you like I kill yoru wife." The Executioner struggled to pull his arms out of Pym's grasp.

But Pym strained all the harder. "You son of a bitch! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Pym screamed, and pulled with all his might. His scream blended with a scream of hate-filled agony ripping from The Executioner.

"I'll kill you! BASTARD! I'll kill you! I'LL KILL YOU!"

Then Pym felt it – a tendon pop. A shriek of blinding anguish gurgled out of The Executioner. Pym kept up the pressure, screaming, screaming, screaming. The Executioner was resisting with all his immense muscled might. But he was losing. Pym pulled as he'd never pulled before. The muscles in his shoulders boiled in pain. Yet he pulled, on and on. Screaming and shrieking mingled and arced together.

Then, just as he felt The Executioner's muscles trembling with their last resistance – suddenly Pym's head swam, the world seemed to grow larger around him, and he fell to the floor.

He lay there dazed, unable to move. He felt like he was going to faint. He could see The Executioner, who had dropped to the floor next to him. A pack of security guards swarmed out of the darkness and started dragging him away. But Pym was powerless to stop them. He'd shrunk again. Somehow, he'd shrunk back to normal size.

His tormented mind at last gave up. The beating, the anger, the self-loathing, the growing, the shrinking. It became too much. His mind slipped toward unconsciousness and madness. But just as he faded, he heard a tiny voice, like the whisper of a firefly. It sounded like it was coming from inside his ear.

"I _told_ you I didn't want to have to fight _against_ you over here!"


	17. War

_The Avengers and all related characters and settings are the property of Marvel Inc. and their respective affiliates. All rights reserved (by them, not me). _

**Chapter 17: War**

**Belgrade**

Janet saw The Executioner's henchmen dragging him toward the door, one of his arms dangling useless by his side. But she made no move to stop them. The rest of the security men, seeing their leader down, had started scrambling for the exits too, and Janet wasn't going to do anything to change that. This mission had gotten out of hand.

Iron Man had remained virtually buried under a mound of human bodies since The Executioner sent his entire force at him. And while Stark had never been in danger himself, safe within his armor from any weapon this crew had, the overwhelming manpower thrown at him had neutralized his effectiveness. No doubt that was The Executioner's plan. And Janet couldn't take on The Executioner herself. She also knew now that she couldn't trust Pym to it.

She cut power on her tiny repulsor wings and dropped to the floor next to Pym's head. His helmet had come off, and he was groggy, but he already seemed to be coming around. Janet knew he'd be furious at her. But what choice did she have? He was about to pull The Executioner in two, not only killing him, but doing it in the most vulgar manner.

"Hank, Janet, what happened?" The voice was Stark's. She could see him, walking toward them through the smoke. The last of the guards who'd been attacking him was running for the back exits.

"Hank was about to kill The Executioner. So I shrunk him."

"Then we go after him," Stark's metallic voice came back.

"Tony, Hank's psychotic again. We can't trust him. We've got to get him out of here."

"We will get him out of here. We'll get _all_ of us out of here. Including The Executioner." Iron Man kept stalking toward the exit.

Janet didn't want to leave Pym here alone. But she didn't want to make Stark take on The Executioner by himself, either. She was the one who let the man go. She could help get him back.

"Alright. I'm coming with you."

"Just remember, sweet cakes, you can't shrink _me_ down."

"Yeah, but you won't try to kill the man, either."

"Fair enough."

Janet fired her repulsor wings and soared back into the air. She saw Pym out of the corner of her eye, just pulling himself up into a sitting position, as she neared the ceiling. Then she moved off.

Iron Man strode below her like a robot out of a science fiction movie. He made for the exit they'd seen The Executioner leave through. Janet swooped down through the doorway into the building's perimeter corridor at the same time Iron Man did. She was just about to make her turn and head down the walkway toward the exterior doors, when Stark's voice crackled over her earpiece again. He sounded as unnerved as she'd ever heard him.

"Holy shit."

Janet pulled to a midair hover and looked back at Iron Man. He was staring through the glass exterior wall into the street outside the conference center.

Janet turned and saw it too. "Oh my God."

_He must have called in the whole freakin' army._

In the streets outside the conference center, what looked like a full military battalion had drawn up. A tank flanked each corner, and armored cars with smaller cannon and machine guns formed a solid line between the tanks. Hundreds of troops, guns raised, stood in the gaps between the armor. As Janet looked on, a military helicopter roared into view over the top of the building, then banked, turned back, and leveled what looked like a rotary cannon at them.

Janet had never seen anything like it. Fear gripped her throat like the hand of a specter.

"Uh . . . Tony? What do we do now?" She could hear her own voice quivering with fear.

"Working on it, sweetheart." Iron Man was pressing buttons in a compartment in one arm of his armor.

"Tony, we need to go."

"Ya think?"

Some guy with a bullhorn called to them, the sound echoing off the close streets. Janet couldn't understand a word of it. It was in Serbian. But she didn't need to. She had little doubt what he was saying.

"Uh, Tony?"

"You need to get Hank out of there. I'll try to stall 'em. We need two minutes."

"Two minutes for what?"

"JUST GET HANK!"

Janet didn't argue. She flew back into the assembly room. Pym was just staggering to his feet.

"Hank!"

No response.

"Hank, can you hear me?"

Still nothing. Then she remembered she'd seen him throw his earpiece away.

_Well . . . there's nothing else for it_. Janet flew up and lit on the floor of his outer ear.

"Hank!"

Pym stopped.

"We've got to get out of here. They've called in the whole army!"

Pym didn't move for several seconds. Then he spoke on a low whisper. But it sounded to her like the thrum of some great machine.

"You let him get away."

"Hank, for God's sake, we can talk about that later. I'm not kidding, the army's outside the building. We've got to get out of here!"

"You . . . you protected my wife's murderer."

"Hank, I didn't protect anyone. Tony was going after him. But he must have called in reinforcements."

Suddenly, Janet felt Pym's whole body shudder. She saw his hand move, down by his side. Firing her wings, she lifted off into the air . . . just as Pym's hand swatted at the side of his head – right where she had been.

_If he'd have hit me . . . _

"Hank, you bastard! You could have killed me!" She yelled it before she remembered Pym couldn't hear her.

She thought seriously about leaving him then. _Let him take his chances with the Serbian military_ - that'd teach him. But then that same merciful place in her heart that let The Executioner get away made her remember: Hank's not himself. He's having another psychotic break.

She made up her mind: _I can't leave him. But how do I communicate with him?_ She didn't dare light on his ear again. But without his earpiece, he wouldn't hear a word she said, no matter how loud she screamed.

Just then, she heard an explosion. It sounded like it came from outside the building.

"Tony!" She flew back toward the exit. Another explosion rocked the building. She heard the high scream of Iron Man's repulsors firing up, a blast of energy . . . then all other sound was lost in a thunderstorm of gunfire. Janet was just about to clear the threshold of the door, swooping down at it from above, when she heard the glass wall to the outside shatter. Shards blew into the room.

"TONY!"

She could still hear Iron Man's repulsors blasting. Then she saw holes appearing as if by magic in the interior wall – and a split-second later, heard them. _Those bullets are penetrating in here!_

Janet dropped to the floor. She looked up to see Pym do the same.

"Tony! We're gonna die!"

A tank cannon thundered, and the wall above her head exploded.

"TONYYYYYY!"

Another repulsor scream – Iron Man was still fighting back. A huge explosion rocked the building from outside. One of Iron Man's repulsors blasts must have hit its mark – she saw a bright yellow flash reflect off of everything.

Then came another scream – a different one. Not Iron Man's repulsors . . . this one really _did_ sound like an aircraft engine. In that instant, the ceiling exploded, dropping tons of debris in a heap in the middle of the cavernous room. The QuinJet descended into view through the hole.

"Get Pym into the jet!" Stark's voice popped through her earpiece. "Get – UGH!" Janet heard more large caliber fire from outside. "Janet! In the cockpit! Hit 'Control – Z – 6' on the keypad! Do you—" Another cacophony of gunfire. "Do you copy?!"

"Got it!" she said. But she had no idea if Stark heard her. So much gun and artillery fire was thundering in the air that a tornado could hit the building and she wouldn't hear it.

Janet fired her wings and rocketed toward the QuinJet. Flying through the air like this, she knew she could be hit any second by the withering fire coming in from outside. But Stark was out there risking his life to get them out of here. She wasn't about to let him down. She was relieved to see Pym scrambling for the QuinJet too. At last, his survival instinct was overriding his despondency.

For now.

The QuinJet settled onto the mound of debris it had created, the side door opening on auto command. Janet soared straight through the door, then banked hard inside the aircraft and made a bee line for the cockpit. Another cannon blast thundered from outside – the whole QuinJet shook. Janet soared to the control panel and landed. The keys were as big as she was. She found the one she wanted and pushed on it with all her might.

"Control."

She scrambled up one row through the waist-high keypad to the "Z" key.

"Z."

She clambered around the side of the keyboard toward the numbers at the top. Another cannon blast rocked the aircraft and threw her off her feet. She fell into the "tab" key. The command console beeped and displayed an error message on its screen.

"_Shit!"_

Janet crawled back toward the "control" key and pressed it again. Then the "Z." Then she scrambled back toward the numbers at the top. Another cannon blast. Gunfire ricocheted off the windshield. She crawled the last inch to the "6" key, raised herself to her feet, and pressed down on it with all her weight.

The QuinJet's engines roared to life. She heard mechanical compartment doors opening beneath her. The jet began taking off, vertically lifting back through the hole it had come down through. Janet launched herself toward the passenger compartment to make sure Pym had made it in. She found him just strapping into a seat. The side door was closing on its own, when suddenly a streak of fire blinded her, and Iron Man rocketed into the compartment. He blazed in so fast he bounced off the far wall. But his repulsors shut off once he was in, and he fell harmlessly, if ungainly, to the floor. The aircraft door closed, and they rose through the roof of the conference center into the night air.

Suddenly the craft lurched, and Janet felt and heard powerful surges of energy coming from beneath them. She screamed – she couldn't help it. But Stark's voice came back in her ear.

"It's the jet's weapons. They're clearing us an escape path."

Iron Man, still in full armor, jumped up and scrambled into the cockpit. Janet followed, firing her wings and entering right behind him. As they rose above the building, she could see the military below them, all weapons firing full-tilt at the rising QuinJet. The craft rocked and bounced – but it kept rising. Iron Man was at the controls, typing commands and pushing buttons. Janet saw the nighttime cityscape of Belgrade stretching out before them.

Suddenly, she heard a very different sound – a loud bang, like a giant rock had hit the hull of the aircraft. The QuinJet lurched violently to one side, and the control console let out a searing alarm. She heard a sound like gas escaping through a valve, further back in the aircraft.

"We're hit," Iron Man's metallic voice came through her headpiece, surprisingly calm.

Janet said nothing. She let Stark work the controls. The QuinJet veered dangerously back toward the rooftops, the sounds of its engines now very different – a throaty grind mingled with its usual roar of power. Janet saw a building loom dead ahead. They were heading right for it. Stark's fingers continued to fly across the keyboard. Slowly, the QuinJet began to right itself. They veered past the building, just passing it on their left. Then the QuinJet started to climb again, gaining altitude as it continued to steady and level. The city of Belgrade began to recede below them. Then it disappeared completely behind a thin sheet of clouds.

The jet kept climbing, rising into the night sky. Janet saw the waxing moon hanging low in the east. The QuinJet vibrated like a car with a wheel out of balance. But it kept climbing. At last, slowly . . . slowly . . . slowly . . . she allowed herself to dare to breathe again.

The craft swooped forward, rattling and grumbling. Nobody said anything for a long time. The jet continued to rise and gain speed, but it was not the effortless climb of their departure from New York. Air hissed loudly out of a circulation system somewhere, and that grind still rumbled under the roar of the engines. But it seemed like it was getting quieter.

Stark in his Iron Man armor still sat at the control panel, not moving, his hands still resting on the console. His armor was scorched and scraped, and two compartment covers on one arm dangled open at odd angles, the compartments they once concealed, empty.

Finally, he spoke. "I guess we made it."

Janet found that she was standing in the co-pilot's seat, its black fabric stretching out like a field around her. "Yes. I guess we did."

Stark reached up and pressed a button on the side of his helmet. His face plate popped open, and she could see him for the first time. He looked around.

"Where are you?"

Janet exhaled a little laugh. "I'm in the co-pilot's seat."

Stark looked down toward her, but she could tell he didn't see her. "You know if we're not careful, somebody's gonna sit on you one day."

Janet laughed – the relief that they were alive flooding through her.

"And to think your dying view of your killer would be of their gigantic ass."

She laughed again. In fact, once it started, the laughter gushed out of her. She couldn't stop it. She felt like she'd just been brought back into a bright, beautiful day after nearly being buried alive. She laughed so long that, after a while, Stark started laughing too. Janet sat down and let the laughter come. It felt good.

They had made it. _They were alive!_

Stark looked back at the control console, his laughter dying away. "I don't know how long this thing's gonna stay aloft."

Janet thought about this. "Well, can you help me get back to normal size. If the ride gets rough, I don't want to be bouncing around the cabin like a marble."

Stark slapped his gauntleted hands against the arms of his chair. "Yep!" He stared blankly out the window into the night sky. "Besides, we've got that other passenger to deal with."


End file.
